Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Nov 7, 2008 12:52:25 GMT -5
Title: An Unintended Transformation
Ship: Esmé/Jerome.
Other Characters: Carmelita Spats and Emma Squalor.
Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of its characters or places. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. Emma Squalor belongs to me.
Rating: PG (for self-harming behavior).
Genre: Angst/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Author’s Note: This is just a completely random idea that I recently came up with and decided to write down. At first I thought the story itself was a little too weird and/or silly, and was a little apprehensive to post it. But I’ve gotten over it, so here ya go.
Jerome supposed that a few days away from his family would have been tolerable. But six months of not being able to speak to them other than by telephone and e-mail had quickly begun to eat away at the soul of the billionaire-turned-author.
Jerome had vague memories of waking each morning in a different hotel room to the sound of an alarm blaring in his head. It was far from the way he would have preferred to start off the day, but that was the sacrifice he had made when he agreed to promote his award-winning novel, Odious Lusting After Finance. He had tried to get Esmé to travel with him, but she had refused, insisting that her presence would not be as well received as her husband’s. Even though she was the one who had convinced him to take the offer after his publicist had telephoned him, he had seen in her eyes how sad she was to see him go. Jerome had known that he had little to worry about, keeping in mind that Carmelita was old enough to look after both her adoptive mother and little sister. Jerome had even asked his brother to drop by the penthouse a few times a week, just to make sure that everyone and everything were as they should be.
Jerome was thankful now that the original copy of Odious Lusting After Finance had been lost in the fire at the Hotel Denouement. For the pages of the book had been littered with evidence pertaining to Esmé’s involvement with both Count Olaf and the Baudelaire case. Ironically, it had been Esmé who had inspired Jerome to rewrite his book, after she had turned up in his bed one night and confessed her love to him. Her honesty had given him back the determination and focus he had lost when all of his hard work had been destroyed. Just to show Esmé how appreciative he was, Jerome had included an entirely new chapter entitled ‘Dramatic Transformations’.
As the taxi halted at the curb in front of 667 Dark Avenue, Jerome felt his heart flutter with excitement. In less than five minutes he would be squeezing his wife while their six-year-old daughter fished around in his pockets for a treat. Carmelita would probably be in one of the nearby kitchens preparing her newest seafood concoction. She would come running out to greet her adoptive father the moment she heard the front door close.
Jerome thanked the driver for their services, being sure to tip them as he handed over the requested payment. Grabbing his suitcase, he climbed out of the taxi and made his way up to the front door of the apartment building.
He could not keep himself from running all the way through the lobby to the elevators. He pressed the buttons on both, waiting impatiently for one to open. When one finally did, he nearly collided with an elderly woman as she stepped out.
“Excuse me,” Jerome said. He tipped his hat apologetically and saw the woman scowl just as the doors slid closed.
On the way up to the top floor, he smiled to himself as he thought of the look on his wife’s face when she finally saw him again. There had been a night in which she had telephoned him in tears at two in the morning, just as he was sitting down to lunch in Vienna. Esmé had then explained between hiccupped sobs that she had dreamt of losing sight of him in a crowd. When she had finally caught up to him, he had hugged her and assured her that they would never be separated again. Only when she had opened her eyes and saw the spot where he should have been then was she struck by the notion that it would be another five months before he returned. The thought had been enough to drive Esmé to uncontrollable tears, and she had immediately telephoned the number of the hotel where Jerome was staying. They had talked for nearly an hour until she calmed down. Their conversation ended with Jerome softly singing his wife a lullaby until she drifted off to sleep.
By the time the elevator reached the top floor and Jerome stepped out, he did not believe he had ever been so nervous in all of his life. He was not sure if it would be better to simply enter the apartment (it was his home, after all) or ring the doorbell (since he had been gone six months).
Figuring that Esmé might be busy fixing herself up in another room and would not be able to hear him, he decided that walking in would be the best approach. Extending one trembling hand, Jerome wrapped his fingers around the knob and pushed the door forward.
It opened to reveal a deserted hallway, and he stepped into the apartment. He had just taken off his coat and was hanging both it and his hat on the coat rack, when a familiar sound captured his attention. He looked up to see his wife running toward him in her stiletto heels and a knee-length black skirt. He was pleased to see that she was wearing his favorite top— a pink cashmere cardigan that showed off every inch of her soft, round, perfect stomach. The cardigan was not a garment that Esmé would choose to wear anyplace other than the penthouse apartment; and never in front of anyone who was not her husband or either of her two daughters.
“Darling!” Esmé cried, and threw herself into Jerome’s waiting arms.
He gasped, as the sensation of having his wife’s warm, soft body being so close to his was both new and familiar to him. It was almost too much to bear, and he felt himself just starting to become lightheaded when something unexpected happened.
Esmé wrapped her arms around Jerome’s waist.
Easily.
For the first time in more than a year.
“I missed—” Esmé began, and her remaining few words were lost as she felt one hand rest on top of the other.
Her arms slipped out around her husband, and he watched her take a few steps back. Her face was now devoid of the happiness she had shown just moments ago, and in its place was a disappointed little pout. Her eyes were focused on something, and as he followed them he saw that she was staring down in despair at his stomach.
“Jerome…” Esmé refocused her gaze on her husband’s face, and the look she gave him indicated that he had done something terribly wrong. “Your stomach. It’s gone. What happened to it?”
“I’m not sure, dear,” Jerome admitted, insufferably aware of just how small he suddenly felt in his Dockers. “I guess I must have lost some weight while I was away.”
Jerome had to admit he had discovered his clothes to be fitting looser within the first month or so of his departure from 667 Dark Avenue. He had not given much thought to the reason, as he had been so busy giving lectures on justice at universities and readings from his novel in bookstores. He had never intended to lose any weight, just because he knew how upset it would make Esmé. She had already gone well out of her way to remind him of just how in he was. Every morning while he had stood by the mirror putting on his tie, she had thrown her arms around him from behind and squeezed him. And every night in bed while he had sat reading, she had laid her head upon his stomach rather than her pillow.
Esmé pressed the tips of her fingers against her red lipsticked mouth, and Jerome felt his heart sink as he watched her eyes fill up with tears. After letting out a tiny, high-pitched sob, she turned and fled quickly down the hallway.
Jerome immediately took off after Esmé, giving no thought to how much faster he could run now that he had lost some weight. Judging by his wife’s reaction, it was obviously more than a couple of pounds. It was just so difficult to believe that seeing him the way he had been when she first met him would make her so upset, when most other women in the world would have been ecstatic. Then again, Esmé was not like other women; she never had been. Jerome remembered back to a year ago when he had first started getting heavy, and Esmé had told him one morning how much more handsome he was looking. He had dismissed her compliment as having been based on an article she had read in the latest edition of In and Out Magazine. But several months passed, and still he had woken each morning to his wife’s hand resting affectionately across his stomach.
“’I love it, Jerome,’” Esmé had said the first time he had asked her what it was about his enormous stomach and pudgy face that made him so attractive. “’You’re one-hundred times as attractive now as you were before, to be perfectly honest. You’re just so sweet and cuddly, that all I want to do is hug you. Other than that, darling, there’s really not much else I can say, because I don’t know what to say. But I do know this much: if you ever came home one day and your stomach was gone, I would be so sad I would cry.’”
And she had. The expression on Esmé’s sweet little face when she had been able to lace her arms around Jerome’s waist without any trouble had devastated the billionaire. But now that he was home with his wife and a houseful of pancake mix, would it really be so difficult to climb back up to two-hundred and twenty pounds?
“Jerome?”
Jerome was halfway to the master bedroom (the place where Esmé did most of her crying) when a voice suddenly stopped him. He paused, and glanced over his shoulder to see his and Esmé’s two daughters standing in the entrance to the kitchen. Carmelita was clutching a spatula in one hand and a potholder in the other. Emma was sucking on a parsley-flavored Popsicle while clutching the corner of her sister’s apron with the other hand.
“Jewome’s home!” Emma squealed, and ran over to embrace her stepfather.
“I thought I heard the front door opening,” Carmelita said with a smile. She set her utensils down on a nearby end table, and then went to join her adoptive father and sister. “How was your trip back?”
“Fine,” Jerome said, scooping Emma up in one arm and hugging Carmelita with the other. “I took the train, and had a taxi pick me up at the station.”
“Jewome bwing me sumpin’?” Emma asked.
Jerome could not help but smile. “Yes,” he said. “There are presents for all of you in my suitcase.”
“See dem now?”
“Emma,” Carmelita said. “Jerome has only just gotten back. Why don’t you let him rest a bit first before you start badgering him with questions?”
“Jewome don’t mind,” Emma insisted.
“Esmé’s really looking forward to seeing you, Jerome,” Carmelita went on. “She’s been locked in her bedroom all morning, fixing herself up in anticipation of your return.” She stopped, and raised an eyebrow. “You look as though you’ve lost weight.”
Jerome simply nodded.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just saw Esmé,” he explained. “She acted very upset when she saw how much weight I’ve lost, and ran off.”
“I thought I heard the sound of her stilettos pass by here a moment ago. Where is she now?”
“My guess is our bedroom,” Jerome replied, and leaned over to set Emma down. “She was headed in that direction when I last saw her. Will you excuse me while I go check on her?”
Carmelita nodded. “Emma and I will be in the kitchen if you need anything,” she said. “If not, then you and Esmé can come to the dining room in about half an hour. I’ll have dinner ready by then.”
Jerome smiled appreciatively at Carmelita, and then bent down to ruffle Emma’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he said to his two daughters. “But it looks like our reunion is going to have to be postponed just a bit longer.”
Carmelita shook her head. “Go on,” she told Jerome, and watched with Emma as he hurried away.
Esmé was not sure what it was about her husband’s own dramatic transformation that had set her off. The thought that he had taken from her something that belonged to him but that she had adored over every in item in the world was simply a reminder of what she had lost all those years ago. Like the first pregnancy Olaf had forced her into terminating, the loss of her husband’s paunch was no easier for her to bear. Esmé knew it was ridiculous to compare the two— as one had been a living creature, while the other had merely been pleasant to look at and touch —but the conscious pain of loss was still there, and she could not bring herself to ignore it.
Another troubling detail was the downright unfairness of the situation. While it had taken Jerome less than a year to lose all of his weight, Esmé had long ago come to terms with the fact that she would always have the little belly and full hips that had come with giving birth. She had only accepted these changes in herself when Jerome had begun trailing right along behind her. Bearing in mind how much he adored her curves, Esmé had very nearly come to appreciate them as well. But now that her husband had changed, she once more found herself back at the starting line, loathing every single detail of her body that he deemed beautiful.
Esmé was lying on her bed, her long-nailed hands tucked beneath her cheek on the pillow. Her long, pale legs were stretched out across the silk bedspread, her right ankle chained around her left. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and her full lips produced a most prominent pout.
The sound of the doorknob turning forced Esmé to raise her head. She watched the door as it pushed forward and Jerome appeared. His eyes and face were full of worry, and had his wife not been so overcome by her tears, then she would have thrown herself across the room and into his arms.
“I had almost forgotten how lovely you look,” Jerome said, “when you’re crying.”
Esmé swiped at a tear rolling down her cheek, hoping that would be enough to convince Jerome that she did not need comforting. But it was not, and a moment later he was heading toward the bed.
Esmé’s pout intensified, and she tried in vain to tug her cardigan down to hide her stomach. Jerome reached over and took her by the hands, smiling slightly at the irritated sound she made. “Now, now,” he scolded gently, and leaned forward. “You won’t be doing any of that.”
Esmé squirmed away as she felt Jerome’s lips press firmly against her stomach.
“Darling, I don’t understand. How can I be expected to only look and not touch when you possess something of such indescribable beauty?”
“Because,” Esmé replied, her pout more distinct than ever, “it isn’t fair, Jerome. It isn’t fair that you leave me for six months, only to return forty pounds lighter! I hate the fact that you would do this to me when you promised you would always stay the same! How could you, Jerome? You looked so handsome and now I… I can’t even hug you the same way I used to!”
As Esmé rolled over on her side and began to cry, Jerome was not sure if he should join her or simply laugh. He was just about to flop down beside her and pull her into a hug, when she said something that caused all traces of humor to vanish from his mind.
“And it isn’t fair that in order for me to get back to a size four, I’ll have to starve myself!”
The instant the final word fell from her lips, Jerome’s arms sprang out and trapped Esmé in a tight hug: his right hand closing over her shoulder while his left pressed down on her stomach. It had never once occurred to him that his weight loss would be enough to drive home all of her discarded hatred towards her own beautiful body.
“It just isn’t fair, Jerome!” Esmé continued miserably. “Why is it that the one thing I can’t succeed in comes so easily for you?” Lifting her arm halfway into the air, she brought it back down promptly, smacking the back of her hand across her bare thigh.
Jerome immediately let go of her stomach to take hold of her hand, only to have her start scraping away at her belly with her sharp nails instead. He shoved her hand away from her abdomen and then wrapped both of his arms around her so tightly she could hardly move.
As soon as he was convinced that Esmé was calm to the point where she would not try to harm herself anymore, Jerome slowly loosened his arms from around her. “Turn around,” he commanded in as gentle a voice as he could manage.
Esmé obeyed, shifting slowly around on the bed to face her husband. Since she could not bear to look him in the eye, she chose to concentrate on his nearly non-existent stomach instead. Extending her long-nailed hand, she pressed one red fingernail against his midsection, amazed by its lack of squishiness.
“Do you still love me?” Jerome asked, the uncertainty in his voice instantly recognizable.
“Of course I do,” Esmé said, her tone soft and sad. As she spoke, she made sure to meet his eyes so he could be certain that she was telling him the truth. “I’m just… disappointed.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen, darling. It was never my intention. But I’m sure that once I start eating your cooking again, it’ll only be a matter of time before I get right back to where I was.”
This last part was enough to at least get Esmé to smile, and in response Jerome pressed his palm against her belly. She did not squirm as she had before, but she did whimper, and when he drew his hand away he saw why: her nails had left tiny little scrapes on both her stomach and ribcage. He turned his attention to her right thigh where she had struck herself, and saw that she had left behind a bright red handprint. Thankfully, none of her injuries were serious, and would probably heal completely within a day or two.
Esmé was sitting quietly, her hands resting over her belly and shielding it from sight. Jerome was not sure if it was because she was ashamed of what she had done, or that between the two of them she was now the only one whose stomach still possessed its noticeable curve.
Perhaps it was a combination of both.
“Sweetheart,” Jerome said, “I’ve brought you so many wonderful presents. They’re inside my suitcase, which I left in the hallway by the front door. Wouldn’t you like to come with me and see what I got you?”
When Esmé made no attempt to answer, Jerome extended his arm and cupped her chin in his thumb and forefinger. Tilting back her head, he frowned deeply at the tears running down her cheeks. At that moment, she looked so devastatingly beautiful that he could not help himself, and he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on her soft lips.
“As beautiful as you look right now, my darling,” Jerome said, “I’m afraid I must admit that your tears are breaking my heart.”
Esmé sniffed, and Jerome reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. He handed it to her, and as she wiped her eyes, she asked, “Before we head out, would you get me my sweater from the closet? The black one that ties in front? I don’t want Carmy or Emma seeing my scratches.”
Before Jerome got up to retrieve Esmé’s garment, he grabbed hold of her other hand and pulled it toward his lips. He kissed it, and she let out a little sound that was half a laugh and half a sob. She really did look unbelievably beautiful, her tears causing her already bright blue eyes to become even brighter and bluer.
Jerome slid off the bed and walked across the room to the closet. As he sifted through Esmé’s clothing, he could not help but notice that every garment in black had found its way to the front of the closet, while the lighter colors had been shoved to the back. Glancing over his shoulder at the bed, Jerome looked down at Esmé’s hands, which were still covering her stomach. The last time he had seen her this depressed was a week or so after Emma had been born, when Esmé had complained that none of her pre-pregnancy garments fit right anymore.
Jerome soon found the sweater that his wife had requested, and removed it from its hanger. Closing the closet doors, he returned to the bed and slipped the sweater around her shoulders. “Here you are,” he said, and kissed Esmé on the cheek. “Are you ready to come and see what I’ve brought you? After that, we can go have dinner. Judging by the delicious aroma wafting out of the kitchen, my guess is that Carmelita is preparing something with flounder.”
Esmé nodded as she pulled on the sweater and fastened the tie securely around her waist. “I hope you didn’t go and buy me any clothes that aren’t black,” she said, and Jerome cursed himself silently behind her back. “It’s the only color I can stand to see myself in.”
“But the top you’re wearing is pink,” he pointed out as they left the room.
“Yes, but I don’t wear it publicly,” Esmé stated firmly. “Do I? So unless any of the garments you have for me are nightgowns, Jerome, then don’t pout if I refuse to wear them out of the apartment.”
As adorable as Jerome found Esmé’s self-consciousness to be, there were times when it worried him. Her obsession with wearing only black and other dark clothing had gone unnoticed when it was in, but that had been more than a year ago. So unless it had come back in while he had been out of the country (which was unlikely, since Emma was wearing a pinstripe pinafore over a polka-dot blouse), then there was something that Esmé had failed to mention.
“Don’t tell Carmy or Emma,” Jerome said to Esmé as he laid his suitcase down on the coffee table. “But I think I may have brought back more for you than I did for them. It’s just that everywhere I went, I saw so many things that I knew would look so incredibly smashing on you.”
Jerome yanked down the zipper and lifted the lid, revealing his carefully folded Armani suits. At the moment they were a tad too large, but if he played his cards right (and he knew for a fact that his wife would make sure he did), then he would probably be able to fit back into them within a month or so. Picking up the suits, Jerome tossed them over the chair behind him. He smiled as Esmé peered curiously into the suitcase from her place on the loveseat.
“Where are they?” she asked. “Where are my presents?”
Jerome pulled out some more clothing and tossed them on top of his suits. He was grinning from ear to ear as he reached into the suitcase and produced the first of a dozen or so gifts he had purchased for his wife. It was a small red tin in the shape of a heart, with the name of a bakery he had visited in southern France scrawled in fancy letters across the lid.
“What is it?” Esmé asked.
“The only way you’ll find that out is if you open it first,” Jerome said.
Deciding that this was as good of an answer as any, Esmé removed the lid to discover that the tin was filled with heart-shaped chocolates. Jerome reached inside and selected one, which he held in front of his wife’s mouth.
To his surprise, she shook her head. “Jerome,” she said sweetly, “you know I don’t eat sweets. Why don’t you share them with Carmelita and Emma?”
“I will,” Jerome promised, “after dinner. But wouldn’t you like to taste just one, darling? This bakery is supposed to have the most delectable chocolates in the entire world.”
But Esmé simply shook her head, and gently pushed her husband’s hand away from her mouth. “I can’t,” she said, and placed the lid back on top of the tin before setting it beside her on the loveseat. “Now, what else did you bring me?”
Somewhat disappointed that his first gift had not been a very big hit, Jerome dug around in the suitcase until he came across another item he had bought for Esmé. He knew just by looking at the box what was inside, and he had known at the time of purchase that it was not something his wife would wear out in public. In fact, after what had occurred in the bedroom, he had serious doubts that she would even agree to wear it in private. But he hoped that she would at least appreciate it.
“Here you are, my dear,” Jerome said, placing the gold box with its white ribbon in his wife’s lap. “I bought it in Arabia. I hope you like it.”
“Your publisher had you make a presentation in Arabia?” Esmé asked as she untied the ribbon. “Did you get to ride on camels?”
“A few times. But I preferred to do most of my traveling by automobile, and sometimes by foot. Open your present.”
Directing her eyes to the box in her lap, Esmé lifted the lid off the box and pulled back the white tissue paper. There she discovered a beautiful lavender top with a fringe of beads around the stomach area. Underneath the top was a fitted hip belt that was a slightly darker shade of purple, and a long, circular skirt to match.
“Oh, Jerome,” Esmé marveled, pressing the top against her cheek. “These garments are absolutely fabulous— I’ve never come across anything like them at the In Boutique. What sort of fabric are they made of?”
“I’m not sure,” Jerome admitted, wondering if his wife had even stopped to consider the significance of the gift she had just received. “Some kind of satin, I suppose. The woman who sold them to me didn’t speak English, and so I didn’t ask.” He blushed. “Darling, do you know what sort of outfit it is that you’re holding?”
Placing her new top back inside its box, Esmé held up the belt. “It’s a costume of some kind,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
“That’s right. But do you know the term for it?”
Esmé blinked her eyes, and then shook her head.
Jerome chuckled, if only because his wife was at her most adorable whenever she became confused. “It’s a belly dancer’s outfit,” he said.
“And you expect me to wear it, I suppose,” said Esmé. She did not sound angry or even upset, but rather like she was expecting her husband to answer her.
“Well, yes. I don’t expect you to take lessons or anything— though I certainly wouldn’t protest if that’s what you wanted. I just thought you could do with some more garments that show off that charming little tummy of yours.”
Esmé felt herself blush deeply at the compliment. Burying her face in her hands, she giggled until her shyness had passed, and then smiled up at her husband. “You know, Jerome,” she said, her cheeks still crimson. “I really don’t care how much weight you ever gain or lose. I think you’re very handsome. Either way.”
Jerome stood, pulling Esmé up from the loveseat and into his arms. He was just about to kiss her when Emma came running up to them.
“Mommy,” she said, “Jewome. Supper’s wedy. Come an’ get it.”
“We’re coming, darling,” Esmé told her daughter. “Tell your sister we’ll be right there.”
“’Kay!”
As soon as Emma had scampered back down the hallway, Esmé turned once more to her husband. “Meet me in the bedroom after you’ve finished the dishes,” she said, and nodded at the box containing her new outfit. “I’ll have a surprise for you.”
Pressing his forehead against his wife’s, Jerome replied, “Something tells me that I’ll like it…”
“That makes two of us…”
Jerome kissed Esmé on the nose, and then offered her his arm. She took it, and together the two of them headed down to the dining room for supper.
Ship: Esmé/Jerome.
Other Characters: Carmelita Spats and Emma Squalor.
Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of its characters or places. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. Emma Squalor belongs to me.
Rating: PG (for self-harming behavior).
Genre: Angst/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Author’s Note: This is just a completely random idea that I recently came up with and decided to write down. At first I thought the story itself was a little too weird and/or silly, and was a little apprehensive to post it. But I’ve gotten over it, so here ya go.
***
Jerome supposed that a few days away from his family would have been tolerable. But six months of not being able to speak to them other than by telephone and e-mail had quickly begun to eat away at the soul of the billionaire-turned-author.
Jerome had vague memories of waking each morning in a different hotel room to the sound of an alarm blaring in his head. It was far from the way he would have preferred to start off the day, but that was the sacrifice he had made when he agreed to promote his award-winning novel, Odious Lusting After Finance. He had tried to get Esmé to travel with him, but she had refused, insisting that her presence would not be as well received as her husband’s. Even though she was the one who had convinced him to take the offer after his publicist had telephoned him, he had seen in her eyes how sad she was to see him go. Jerome had known that he had little to worry about, keeping in mind that Carmelita was old enough to look after both her adoptive mother and little sister. Jerome had even asked his brother to drop by the penthouse a few times a week, just to make sure that everyone and everything were as they should be.
Jerome was thankful now that the original copy of Odious Lusting After Finance had been lost in the fire at the Hotel Denouement. For the pages of the book had been littered with evidence pertaining to Esmé’s involvement with both Count Olaf and the Baudelaire case. Ironically, it had been Esmé who had inspired Jerome to rewrite his book, after she had turned up in his bed one night and confessed her love to him. Her honesty had given him back the determination and focus he had lost when all of his hard work had been destroyed. Just to show Esmé how appreciative he was, Jerome had included an entirely new chapter entitled ‘Dramatic Transformations’.
As the taxi halted at the curb in front of 667 Dark Avenue, Jerome felt his heart flutter with excitement. In less than five minutes he would be squeezing his wife while their six-year-old daughter fished around in his pockets for a treat. Carmelita would probably be in one of the nearby kitchens preparing her newest seafood concoction. She would come running out to greet her adoptive father the moment she heard the front door close.
Jerome thanked the driver for their services, being sure to tip them as he handed over the requested payment. Grabbing his suitcase, he climbed out of the taxi and made his way up to the front door of the apartment building.
He could not keep himself from running all the way through the lobby to the elevators. He pressed the buttons on both, waiting impatiently for one to open. When one finally did, he nearly collided with an elderly woman as she stepped out.
“Excuse me,” Jerome said. He tipped his hat apologetically and saw the woman scowl just as the doors slid closed.
On the way up to the top floor, he smiled to himself as he thought of the look on his wife’s face when she finally saw him again. There had been a night in which she had telephoned him in tears at two in the morning, just as he was sitting down to lunch in Vienna. Esmé had then explained between hiccupped sobs that she had dreamt of losing sight of him in a crowd. When she had finally caught up to him, he had hugged her and assured her that they would never be separated again. Only when she had opened her eyes and saw the spot where he should have been then was she struck by the notion that it would be another five months before he returned. The thought had been enough to drive Esmé to uncontrollable tears, and she had immediately telephoned the number of the hotel where Jerome was staying. They had talked for nearly an hour until she calmed down. Their conversation ended with Jerome softly singing his wife a lullaby until she drifted off to sleep.
By the time the elevator reached the top floor and Jerome stepped out, he did not believe he had ever been so nervous in all of his life. He was not sure if it would be better to simply enter the apartment (it was his home, after all) or ring the doorbell (since he had been gone six months).
Figuring that Esmé might be busy fixing herself up in another room and would not be able to hear him, he decided that walking in would be the best approach. Extending one trembling hand, Jerome wrapped his fingers around the knob and pushed the door forward.
It opened to reveal a deserted hallway, and he stepped into the apartment. He had just taken off his coat and was hanging both it and his hat on the coat rack, when a familiar sound captured his attention. He looked up to see his wife running toward him in her stiletto heels and a knee-length black skirt. He was pleased to see that she was wearing his favorite top— a pink cashmere cardigan that showed off every inch of her soft, round, perfect stomach. The cardigan was not a garment that Esmé would choose to wear anyplace other than the penthouse apartment; and never in front of anyone who was not her husband or either of her two daughters.
“Darling!” Esmé cried, and threw herself into Jerome’s waiting arms.
He gasped, as the sensation of having his wife’s warm, soft body being so close to his was both new and familiar to him. It was almost too much to bear, and he felt himself just starting to become lightheaded when something unexpected happened.
Esmé wrapped her arms around Jerome’s waist.
Easily.
For the first time in more than a year.
“I missed—” Esmé began, and her remaining few words were lost as she felt one hand rest on top of the other.
Her arms slipped out around her husband, and he watched her take a few steps back. Her face was now devoid of the happiness she had shown just moments ago, and in its place was a disappointed little pout. Her eyes were focused on something, and as he followed them he saw that she was staring down in despair at his stomach.
“Jerome…” Esmé refocused her gaze on her husband’s face, and the look she gave him indicated that he had done something terribly wrong. “Your stomach. It’s gone. What happened to it?”
“I’m not sure, dear,” Jerome admitted, insufferably aware of just how small he suddenly felt in his Dockers. “I guess I must have lost some weight while I was away.”
Jerome had to admit he had discovered his clothes to be fitting looser within the first month or so of his departure from 667 Dark Avenue. He had not given much thought to the reason, as he had been so busy giving lectures on justice at universities and readings from his novel in bookstores. He had never intended to lose any weight, just because he knew how upset it would make Esmé. She had already gone well out of her way to remind him of just how in he was. Every morning while he had stood by the mirror putting on his tie, she had thrown her arms around him from behind and squeezed him. And every night in bed while he had sat reading, she had laid her head upon his stomach rather than her pillow.
Esmé pressed the tips of her fingers against her red lipsticked mouth, and Jerome felt his heart sink as he watched her eyes fill up with tears. After letting out a tiny, high-pitched sob, she turned and fled quickly down the hallway.
Jerome immediately took off after Esmé, giving no thought to how much faster he could run now that he had lost some weight. Judging by his wife’s reaction, it was obviously more than a couple of pounds. It was just so difficult to believe that seeing him the way he had been when she first met him would make her so upset, when most other women in the world would have been ecstatic. Then again, Esmé was not like other women; she never had been. Jerome remembered back to a year ago when he had first started getting heavy, and Esmé had told him one morning how much more handsome he was looking. He had dismissed her compliment as having been based on an article she had read in the latest edition of In and Out Magazine. But several months passed, and still he had woken each morning to his wife’s hand resting affectionately across his stomach.
“’I love it, Jerome,’” Esmé had said the first time he had asked her what it was about his enormous stomach and pudgy face that made him so attractive. “’You’re one-hundred times as attractive now as you were before, to be perfectly honest. You’re just so sweet and cuddly, that all I want to do is hug you. Other than that, darling, there’s really not much else I can say, because I don’t know what to say. But I do know this much: if you ever came home one day and your stomach was gone, I would be so sad I would cry.’”
And she had. The expression on Esmé’s sweet little face when she had been able to lace her arms around Jerome’s waist without any trouble had devastated the billionaire. But now that he was home with his wife and a houseful of pancake mix, would it really be so difficult to climb back up to two-hundred and twenty pounds?
“Jerome?”
Jerome was halfway to the master bedroom (the place where Esmé did most of her crying) when a voice suddenly stopped him. He paused, and glanced over his shoulder to see his and Esmé’s two daughters standing in the entrance to the kitchen. Carmelita was clutching a spatula in one hand and a potholder in the other. Emma was sucking on a parsley-flavored Popsicle while clutching the corner of her sister’s apron with the other hand.
“Jewome’s home!” Emma squealed, and ran over to embrace her stepfather.
“I thought I heard the front door opening,” Carmelita said with a smile. She set her utensils down on a nearby end table, and then went to join her adoptive father and sister. “How was your trip back?”
“Fine,” Jerome said, scooping Emma up in one arm and hugging Carmelita with the other. “I took the train, and had a taxi pick me up at the station.”
“Jewome bwing me sumpin’?” Emma asked.
Jerome could not help but smile. “Yes,” he said. “There are presents for all of you in my suitcase.”
“See dem now?”
“Emma,” Carmelita said. “Jerome has only just gotten back. Why don’t you let him rest a bit first before you start badgering him with questions?”
“Jewome don’t mind,” Emma insisted.
“Esmé’s really looking forward to seeing you, Jerome,” Carmelita went on. “She’s been locked in her bedroom all morning, fixing herself up in anticipation of your return.” She stopped, and raised an eyebrow. “You look as though you’ve lost weight.”
Jerome simply nodded.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just saw Esmé,” he explained. “She acted very upset when she saw how much weight I’ve lost, and ran off.”
“I thought I heard the sound of her stilettos pass by here a moment ago. Where is she now?”
“My guess is our bedroom,” Jerome replied, and leaned over to set Emma down. “She was headed in that direction when I last saw her. Will you excuse me while I go check on her?”
Carmelita nodded. “Emma and I will be in the kitchen if you need anything,” she said. “If not, then you and Esmé can come to the dining room in about half an hour. I’ll have dinner ready by then.”
Jerome smiled appreciatively at Carmelita, and then bent down to ruffle Emma’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he said to his two daughters. “But it looks like our reunion is going to have to be postponed just a bit longer.”
Carmelita shook her head. “Go on,” she told Jerome, and watched with Emma as he hurried away.
***
Esmé was not sure what it was about her husband’s own dramatic transformation that had set her off. The thought that he had taken from her something that belonged to him but that she had adored over every in item in the world was simply a reminder of what she had lost all those years ago. Like the first pregnancy Olaf had forced her into terminating, the loss of her husband’s paunch was no easier for her to bear. Esmé knew it was ridiculous to compare the two— as one had been a living creature, while the other had merely been pleasant to look at and touch —but the conscious pain of loss was still there, and she could not bring herself to ignore it.
Another troubling detail was the downright unfairness of the situation. While it had taken Jerome less than a year to lose all of his weight, Esmé had long ago come to terms with the fact that she would always have the little belly and full hips that had come with giving birth. She had only accepted these changes in herself when Jerome had begun trailing right along behind her. Bearing in mind how much he adored her curves, Esmé had very nearly come to appreciate them as well. But now that her husband had changed, she once more found herself back at the starting line, loathing every single detail of her body that he deemed beautiful.
Esmé was lying on her bed, her long-nailed hands tucked beneath her cheek on the pillow. Her long, pale legs were stretched out across the silk bedspread, her right ankle chained around her left. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and her full lips produced a most prominent pout.
The sound of the doorknob turning forced Esmé to raise her head. She watched the door as it pushed forward and Jerome appeared. His eyes and face were full of worry, and had his wife not been so overcome by her tears, then she would have thrown herself across the room and into his arms.
“I had almost forgotten how lovely you look,” Jerome said, “when you’re crying.”
Esmé swiped at a tear rolling down her cheek, hoping that would be enough to convince Jerome that she did not need comforting. But it was not, and a moment later he was heading toward the bed.
Esmé’s pout intensified, and she tried in vain to tug her cardigan down to hide her stomach. Jerome reached over and took her by the hands, smiling slightly at the irritated sound she made. “Now, now,” he scolded gently, and leaned forward. “You won’t be doing any of that.”
Esmé squirmed away as she felt Jerome’s lips press firmly against her stomach.
“Darling, I don’t understand. How can I be expected to only look and not touch when you possess something of such indescribable beauty?”
“Because,” Esmé replied, her pout more distinct than ever, “it isn’t fair, Jerome. It isn’t fair that you leave me for six months, only to return forty pounds lighter! I hate the fact that you would do this to me when you promised you would always stay the same! How could you, Jerome? You looked so handsome and now I… I can’t even hug you the same way I used to!”
As Esmé rolled over on her side and began to cry, Jerome was not sure if he should join her or simply laugh. He was just about to flop down beside her and pull her into a hug, when she said something that caused all traces of humor to vanish from his mind.
“And it isn’t fair that in order for me to get back to a size four, I’ll have to starve myself!”
The instant the final word fell from her lips, Jerome’s arms sprang out and trapped Esmé in a tight hug: his right hand closing over her shoulder while his left pressed down on her stomach. It had never once occurred to him that his weight loss would be enough to drive home all of her discarded hatred towards her own beautiful body.
“It just isn’t fair, Jerome!” Esmé continued miserably. “Why is it that the one thing I can’t succeed in comes so easily for you?” Lifting her arm halfway into the air, she brought it back down promptly, smacking the back of her hand across her bare thigh.
Jerome immediately let go of her stomach to take hold of her hand, only to have her start scraping away at her belly with her sharp nails instead. He shoved her hand away from her abdomen and then wrapped both of his arms around her so tightly she could hardly move.
As soon as he was convinced that Esmé was calm to the point where she would not try to harm herself anymore, Jerome slowly loosened his arms from around her. “Turn around,” he commanded in as gentle a voice as he could manage.
Esmé obeyed, shifting slowly around on the bed to face her husband. Since she could not bear to look him in the eye, she chose to concentrate on his nearly non-existent stomach instead. Extending her long-nailed hand, she pressed one red fingernail against his midsection, amazed by its lack of squishiness.
“Do you still love me?” Jerome asked, the uncertainty in his voice instantly recognizable.
“Of course I do,” Esmé said, her tone soft and sad. As she spoke, she made sure to meet his eyes so he could be certain that she was telling him the truth. “I’m just… disappointed.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen, darling. It was never my intention. But I’m sure that once I start eating your cooking again, it’ll only be a matter of time before I get right back to where I was.”
This last part was enough to at least get Esmé to smile, and in response Jerome pressed his palm against her belly. She did not squirm as she had before, but she did whimper, and when he drew his hand away he saw why: her nails had left tiny little scrapes on both her stomach and ribcage. He turned his attention to her right thigh where she had struck herself, and saw that she had left behind a bright red handprint. Thankfully, none of her injuries were serious, and would probably heal completely within a day or two.
Esmé was sitting quietly, her hands resting over her belly and shielding it from sight. Jerome was not sure if it was because she was ashamed of what she had done, or that between the two of them she was now the only one whose stomach still possessed its noticeable curve.
Perhaps it was a combination of both.
“Sweetheart,” Jerome said, “I’ve brought you so many wonderful presents. They’re inside my suitcase, which I left in the hallway by the front door. Wouldn’t you like to come with me and see what I got you?”
When Esmé made no attempt to answer, Jerome extended his arm and cupped her chin in his thumb and forefinger. Tilting back her head, he frowned deeply at the tears running down her cheeks. At that moment, she looked so devastatingly beautiful that he could not help himself, and he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on her soft lips.
“As beautiful as you look right now, my darling,” Jerome said, “I’m afraid I must admit that your tears are breaking my heart.”
Esmé sniffed, and Jerome reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. He handed it to her, and as she wiped her eyes, she asked, “Before we head out, would you get me my sweater from the closet? The black one that ties in front? I don’t want Carmy or Emma seeing my scratches.”
Before Jerome got up to retrieve Esmé’s garment, he grabbed hold of her other hand and pulled it toward his lips. He kissed it, and she let out a little sound that was half a laugh and half a sob. She really did look unbelievably beautiful, her tears causing her already bright blue eyes to become even brighter and bluer.
Jerome slid off the bed and walked across the room to the closet. As he sifted through Esmé’s clothing, he could not help but notice that every garment in black had found its way to the front of the closet, while the lighter colors had been shoved to the back. Glancing over his shoulder at the bed, Jerome looked down at Esmé’s hands, which were still covering her stomach. The last time he had seen her this depressed was a week or so after Emma had been born, when Esmé had complained that none of her pre-pregnancy garments fit right anymore.
Jerome soon found the sweater that his wife had requested, and removed it from its hanger. Closing the closet doors, he returned to the bed and slipped the sweater around her shoulders. “Here you are,” he said, and kissed Esmé on the cheek. “Are you ready to come and see what I’ve brought you? After that, we can go have dinner. Judging by the delicious aroma wafting out of the kitchen, my guess is that Carmelita is preparing something with flounder.”
Esmé nodded as she pulled on the sweater and fastened the tie securely around her waist. “I hope you didn’t go and buy me any clothes that aren’t black,” she said, and Jerome cursed himself silently behind her back. “It’s the only color I can stand to see myself in.”
“But the top you’re wearing is pink,” he pointed out as they left the room.
“Yes, but I don’t wear it publicly,” Esmé stated firmly. “Do I? So unless any of the garments you have for me are nightgowns, Jerome, then don’t pout if I refuse to wear them out of the apartment.”
As adorable as Jerome found Esmé’s self-consciousness to be, there were times when it worried him. Her obsession with wearing only black and other dark clothing had gone unnoticed when it was in, but that had been more than a year ago. So unless it had come back in while he had been out of the country (which was unlikely, since Emma was wearing a pinstripe pinafore over a polka-dot blouse), then there was something that Esmé had failed to mention.
***
“Don’t tell Carmy or Emma,” Jerome said to Esmé as he laid his suitcase down on the coffee table. “But I think I may have brought back more for you than I did for them. It’s just that everywhere I went, I saw so many things that I knew would look so incredibly smashing on you.”
Jerome yanked down the zipper and lifted the lid, revealing his carefully folded Armani suits. At the moment they were a tad too large, but if he played his cards right (and he knew for a fact that his wife would make sure he did), then he would probably be able to fit back into them within a month or so. Picking up the suits, Jerome tossed them over the chair behind him. He smiled as Esmé peered curiously into the suitcase from her place on the loveseat.
“Where are they?” she asked. “Where are my presents?”
Jerome pulled out some more clothing and tossed them on top of his suits. He was grinning from ear to ear as he reached into the suitcase and produced the first of a dozen or so gifts he had purchased for his wife. It was a small red tin in the shape of a heart, with the name of a bakery he had visited in southern France scrawled in fancy letters across the lid.
“What is it?” Esmé asked.
“The only way you’ll find that out is if you open it first,” Jerome said.
Deciding that this was as good of an answer as any, Esmé removed the lid to discover that the tin was filled with heart-shaped chocolates. Jerome reached inside and selected one, which he held in front of his wife’s mouth.
To his surprise, she shook her head. “Jerome,” she said sweetly, “you know I don’t eat sweets. Why don’t you share them with Carmelita and Emma?”
“I will,” Jerome promised, “after dinner. But wouldn’t you like to taste just one, darling? This bakery is supposed to have the most delectable chocolates in the entire world.”
But Esmé simply shook her head, and gently pushed her husband’s hand away from her mouth. “I can’t,” she said, and placed the lid back on top of the tin before setting it beside her on the loveseat. “Now, what else did you bring me?”
Somewhat disappointed that his first gift had not been a very big hit, Jerome dug around in the suitcase until he came across another item he had bought for Esmé. He knew just by looking at the box what was inside, and he had known at the time of purchase that it was not something his wife would wear out in public. In fact, after what had occurred in the bedroom, he had serious doubts that she would even agree to wear it in private. But he hoped that she would at least appreciate it.
“Here you are, my dear,” Jerome said, placing the gold box with its white ribbon in his wife’s lap. “I bought it in Arabia. I hope you like it.”
“Your publisher had you make a presentation in Arabia?” Esmé asked as she untied the ribbon. “Did you get to ride on camels?”
“A few times. But I preferred to do most of my traveling by automobile, and sometimes by foot. Open your present.”
Directing her eyes to the box in her lap, Esmé lifted the lid off the box and pulled back the white tissue paper. There she discovered a beautiful lavender top with a fringe of beads around the stomach area. Underneath the top was a fitted hip belt that was a slightly darker shade of purple, and a long, circular skirt to match.
“Oh, Jerome,” Esmé marveled, pressing the top against her cheek. “These garments are absolutely fabulous— I’ve never come across anything like them at the In Boutique. What sort of fabric are they made of?”
“I’m not sure,” Jerome admitted, wondering if his wife had even stopped to consider the significance of the gift she had just received. “Some kind of satin, I suppose. The woman who sold them to me didn’t speak English, and so I didn’t ask.” He blushed. “Darling, do you know what sort of outfit it is that you’re holding?”
Placing her new top back inside its box, Esmé held up the belt. “It’s a costume of some kind,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
“That’s right. But do you know the term for it?”
Esmé blinked her eyes, and then shook her head.
Jerome chuckled, if only because his wife was at her most adorable whenever she became confused. “It’s a belly dancer’s outfit,” he said.
“And you expect me to wear it, I suppose,” said Esmé. She did not sound angry or even upset, but rather like she was expecting her husband to answer her.
“Well, yes. I don’t expect you to take lessons or anything— though I certainly wouldn’t protest if that’s what you wanted. I just thought you could do with some more garments that show off that charming little tummy of yours.”
Esmé felt herself blush deeply at the compliment. Burying her face in her hands, she giggled until her shyness had passed, and then smiled up at her husband. “You know, Jerome,” she said, her cheeks still crimson. “I really don’t care how much weight you ever gain or lose. I think you’re very handsome. Either way.”
Jerome stood, pulling Esmé up from the loveseat and into his arms. He was just about to kiss her when Emma came running up to them.
“Mommy,” she said, “Jewome. Supper’s wedy. Come an’ get it.”
“We’re coming, darling,” Esmé told her daughter. “Tell your sister we’ll be right there.”
“’Kay!”
As soon as Emma had scampered back down the hallway, Esmé turned once more to her husband. “Meet me in the bedroom after you’ve finished the dishes,” she said, and nodded at the box containing her new outfit. “I’ll have a surprise for you.”
Pressing his forehead against his wife’s, Jerome replied, “Something tells me that I’ll like it…”
“That makes two of us…”
Jerome kissed Esmé on the nose, and then offered her his arm. She took it, and together the two of them headed down to the dining room for supper.
The End