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The Quickie The Quickie The Quickie The Quickie One I KNEW THIS WAS a really terrific idea, if I didn’t say so myself, surprising Paul for lunch at his office down on Pearl Street. I’d made a special trip into Manhattan and had put on my favorite “little black dress.” I looked moderately ravishing. Nothing that would be out of place at the Mark Joseph Steakhouse, and one of Paul’s favorite outfits, too, the one he usually chose if I asked him, “What should I wear to this thing, Paul?” Anyway, I was excited, and I’d already spoken to his assistant, Jean, to make sure that he was there - though I hadn’t alerted her about the surprise. Jean was Paul’s assistant after all, not mine. And then, there was Paul. As I rounded the corner in my Mini Cooper, I saw him leaving his office building, walking with a twenty- something blonde woman. Paul was leaning in very close to her, chatting, laughing in a way that instantly made me feel very ill. She was one of those bright, shiny beauties you’re more likely to see in Chicago or Iowa City. Tall, hair like platinum silk. Cream-colored skin that looked just about perfect from this distance. Not a wrinkle or blemish. She wasn’t completely perfect, though. She tripped a Manolo on a street plate as she and Paul were getting into a taxi, and as I watched Paul gallantly catch hold of the pink cashmere on her anorexic elbow, I felt like someone had hammered a cold chisel right into the center of my chest. I followed them. Well, I guess followed is too polite. I stalked them. All the way up to Midtown, I stayed on that taxi’s bumper like we were connected by a tow hook. When the cab suddenly pulled up in front of the entrance to the St. Regis Hotel
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