The Klone and I: A High-Tech Love Story - By Danielle Steel Page 0,61

look, and I hated him for it. I didn't want him to be human, and more than anything I didn't want him to feel sorry for me because I was out with a Klone covered in blinking lights and Christmas balls.

“I'm fine, Roger,” I said quietly. But as I said it, I wasn't so sure that I was. I was in love with a most unusual man who was in California doing odd scientific things I didn't understand, and who had no desire to get married, and in his absence, I was sleeping with his Klone. It was not only tough to explain to Roger, but a little hard to come to terms with myself. As I thought about it, Paul returned from wherever he had been.

“We got a table,” he said proudly, reaching for my glass of wine, but all I wanted to do was go home. I could see Helena approaching, preceded by a small cloud of flying fur.

“It was nice to see you,” I said to Roger politely. “Merry Christmas,” and with that, I set down my wine, and left the bar with Paul. We passed Helena on the way, and I could smell her perfume. It was one I had worn ten years before, and I knew Roger had bought it for her, because it was one he really loved. He was hers now, and they had their own life. They were having a baby, and whatever mess I had made with my own life, it was not his problem, and maybe not even Peter's or Paul's.

I told Paul that I wanted to leave then, and he looked disappointed about the table, but he could see in my eyes that something was wrong. He followed me outside, and looked at me in the freezing night air as I took a deep breath, as much to free myself of the familiar sight and scent of Roger as of Helena's perfume and her fur.

“What happened?”

“I don't know,” I said, shaking in the December air it had just started to snow. “I didn't expect to see them … she's such a bimbo, and he's crazy about her. It was like a reminder of everything I felt when he left me. He left me for her.” I felt vulnerable and naked, and the cheesy dress and brassy hair were no consolation. The truth was he hadn't loved me. And for now at least, he loved her. I didn't want him anymore, that wasn't the point, and I wouldn't have taken him back if he'd asked me, but it still rubbed all my broken dreams in my face again.

“Don't feel bad, Steph,” Paul said kindly. “She's a giant zero. Her boobs aren't even real … and Christ, that awful dress! You're ten times better-looking than she is. Believe me. And who wants a woman with that kind of taste?” As he said it, his pants were twinkling brightly, and the Christmas balls on his jacket were dancing in the breeze, but somehow the look in his eyes touched me deeply, and he put one arm around me, hailed a cab with the other, and as we got into the taxi, he gently wiped away my tears.

“Forget them. We'll go home and light some candles, and I'll give you a massage.” And for once, it sounded like just what the doctor ordered. I was quiet in the cab, still shaken by the encounter, and Paul was gentle and understanding when we went upstairs.

I paid the sitter and was relieved to find that both kids had gone to bed early and were asleep. And that night, it was surprisingly soothing to let Paul massage me, and eventually to let myself be transported by his gentle passion, and a very modest double flip.

I felt closer to Paul after that, he had gotten me through a tough moment, seeing Roger with Helena, and had restored a little of my self-esteem. We went to see the Nutcracker with the children that week. Paul went dressed as Turkish Coffee. He did an exotic dance in the aisle and tried to get me to do it with him. And then we took Sam to see Santa, and Paul sat on Santa's lap after Sam did. He also picked out beautiful gifts for both Charlotte and Sam. In his own way, he did a lot of things right. And being with him reminded me of all the things Peter wasn't. It was as though someone had programmed Paul to