Ally Hughes Has Sex Sometimes by Jules Moulin Page B

phone from her ear. Anna’s husband, startled, woke up: “What! What! What the hell happened?”
    â€œAlly had sex with Noah Bean!”
    â€œWho?” he bellowed. “Who the hell is that?”
    â€œAre you telling John?” Ally was mortified.
    Anna returned. “How come you never
told
me this?”
    â€œI didn’t know!”
    â€œâ€˜Hurry up, woman! There’s no time to waste!’” Anna yelled in a convincing English accent. She was imitating Jake in his role as the knight.
    â€œWhat are you saying? Hurry up what?”
    â€œHis famous line: ‘Hurry up, woman! There’s no time to waste!’ He’s Lancelot, Ally, and
People
’s Sexiest Man Alive, from three years ago or maybe four . . .”
    Ally sighed. She looked in the mirror and studied her belly fat. “But whatever.” How did it get there? She took the roll of it in her hand. “He’s a person. A regular person.”
    â€œNo, he’s not. Google
People.
”
    â€œI will
not . . .
Google
People.
”
    â€œYou’re such a snob.”
    â€œI’m not a snob.” Ally turned to the side and did a plié. “I’m in a—dilemma. Call me back when the shock wears off.”
    Anna laughed. “Did you tell Ted?”
    â€œNo. Not yet.”
    â€œLizzie?”
    â€œI will. What’s weird, what’s also weird: He quoted me.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œHe quoted this story I wrote for
Elle.
”
    â€œWow.”
    â€œI think. Unless—”
    â€œHe
remembered,
” Anna said coyly. “Ally?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œGet me an autograph? Please?”
    Ally growled. “This is—that is—not helpful. I’m hanging up.”
    Anna hung up, and Ally hung up and looked in the mirror.
    People
’s Sexiest Man Alive?
    She studied the stretch marks across her hips. The pockets of bulge in her inner thighs. She’d never had a problem with her thighs before!
    Until this year.
    Damn, she thought. She should join a gym.
    Forty-one.
    Forty-one was the worst.
    She turned back around and stood up straight, as straight as she could, and sucked in her belly.
    She straightened her neck and lifted her head, but the slight double chin remained.
    She peered in close to examine her face: the little red spots and three fine lines. It was as if they had
appeared
on her face. Across her forehead.
Overnight.
    She ran her fingers through her hair, sure it had started to thin.
    Maybe it was stress, she thought, and stepped out to find a T-shirt to wear. One that did not belong to Jake.
    She left the bathroom, went down the hall and into the bedroom.
    All that stress. All that grief. The changes in her body. Maybe she didn’t feel confident enough, and that was why she wouldn’t sleep with Ted.
    When had it been? When had she agreed to coffee, after he found her on Facebook?
    While she’d been trolling for Jake.
    Jake.
    January, she’d agreed to coffee. She remembered snow on the ground. Two or three months before Claire had died?
    Claire had been sick, and Teddy had been so bighearted. Called all the time. Sent food. Ran errands. Came the moment Claire died. Attended the wake. Sent a bouquet, an enormous bouquet. And he had been so very patient . . .
    About the sex.
    Ally had claimed to be too stressed. Then too busy. Then too sad. That’s what she thought and that’s what she said.
    She had too much to do before and after: the hospice, the funeral, Claire’s estate . . .
    Teddy was cute. Teddy was bright. Teddy was happy to travel to Brooklyn to eat, to walk, to read the paper . . .
    What was wrong with her?
    She’d had flings. Well, one. With Jake. She wasn’t in love with him back then. Was she?
    In a tank and sweatpants, she climbed into bed.
    Maybe Ted was right about her. Maybe she
was.
Frigid. Repressed. Maybe she needed to embrace pleasure for