by Joan Smith
The bastard! I glared at the cottage window. What an ass I was to have been taken in so easily. Bought with a couple of meals and a few kisses. I’d been seduced as surely as if he’d had his way with my body. I was beyond working. I couldn’t think of anything but his trickery, and every detail bolstered my theory. His strong reaction when we heard of Rosalie’s death—he looked like a zombie. He knew he had to get his book hammered out faster. And he even had the gall to ask me to bring another diary to him that night, to devour while I innocently slept, wasting time.
I ran back to my typewriter, but nobody could work when her adrenaline was pushing through her skull. My fingers were shaking with anger. I got up to go and confront him, then stopped at the door. He’d deny it, of course. He’d pull out that blasted dull book on Eliot and claim that was the source of his wealth. I couldn’t prove otherwise, either, unless I used my wits. For that matter, I could be wrong. I was consumed with a desire to read what he was writing. I wouldn’t let on I knew, but the first time he left his cottage, I’d go in and see for myself.
I forced myself back to work. His flashing eyes laughed at me between the lines. Every word he’d said came back to taunt me. He’d stood up for Hume Mason, intimated he was no worse than me when I put the man down. I knew there had to be a lead lining to my little cloud of pleasure. Well, here it was, raining pellets on me. For a few distraught hours, I’d write a line, then look to the cottage to see if Brad was leaving, reread what I’d written, and strike it out. It was hopeless. Nobody could write under these conditions. Barbara Cartland would run dry.
I phoned Lorraine Taylor, and heard she was in bed with a sedative. I went through the letters, trying to find some evidence that Rosalie had actually had a child, but there was nothing except that question about her feeling better. The word nausea was used. Morning sickness certainly caused nausea. I turned to the diary in which she’d mentioned gaining weight, and couldn’t find even that passage. I knew I hadn’t imagined it. I remembered mentioning it to Brad . . . and he’d borrowed that particular diary. That was the specific one he wanted. He’d removed the pages! I pulled the sheets back as far as they’d go, and sure enough, two pages had been razored out, very neatly. So Hume Mason was even going to have that coup!
It was suddenly noon hour, and I stopped for a can of soup. Brad was probably simmering himself a duck à l’orange. I was supposed to be having dinner with him tonight. I wouldn’t go, of course, but I’d let him waste a few hours preparing it. I couldn’t face a whole afternoon of waiting for him to leave his cottage. I’d go as soon as I finished my soup.
About two spoonfuls before that happened, he came to my door. He didn’t open it, but just called through the screen. “I’m off to town to get some Grand Marnier for dinner. Do you need anything, Audrey? Cigarettes . . ."
I kept my voice as close to normal as I could, to allay suspicion. “I’m out of beer.”
“I’ll pick some up. See you at seven.”
“You bet.”
Through the screen I saw him back the Mercedes around and fly down the road, leaving the inevitable cloud of dust behind it. It was time to sneak into his cottage. Breaking and entering was the official term for what I had in mind. An indictable offense. But if it had been a capital one, it wouldn’t have stopped me; I was too mad.
As soon as he was gone, I darted to his cottage. The front door was locked as tight as a drum. That in itself was suspicious. I went around, checking windows, and found the bedroom one wasn’t impossible to lift. It wasn’t easy either, but by exerting all my strength, I finally moved it. Scrambling in a window at chest level wasn’t easy or comfortable. I tore my shirt and scraped my legs through the jeans, but at last I found myself on the floor inside the cottage, headfirst.
I took a cursory look around the bedroom. A small gold-framed picture of a woman on the beside table caught my attention. At that point, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been himself with a wife and kids, but it was only a woman. I recognized the sweetly smiling face. I’d been looking at it enough lately. It was a photograph of Rosalie, at the height of her beauty. Why would he have a picture of Rosalie by his bed, if not to imbue himself with her aura? He must have actually interviewed someone who knew her, and stolen the picture.
I hurried into the living room, heading straight for the desk, in hopes of finding the missing pages. A sheet of paper in the battered machine with neat, double-spaced typing on it caught my attention. My eye encountered no “prelapsarian” here, no “specious good.” What I read with deep interest was “From the rim of her low-cut scarlet gown, a creamy bosom flowed gently as she came timidly toward him.” The passage continued with many a throb and quiver, as the bosom was aided from the rim, molding itself compliantly to the warmth of his fingers, and engendering a shudder in his loins. Soon his manhood was swelling uncontrollably. I read on, till it—the manhood—was searing her vitals with a sweet sting. Despite her virginal timidity, she enjoyed the whole process to the point of ecstasy.
I was furious that he was fictionalizing Rosalie’s sexual exploits with the breathless “I was there” quality and Day-glo colors expected from Hume Mason. If this was a sample of his book, it was garbage, and would be snatched up by the thousands, leaving Queen of Hearts a mile behind.
A sheaf of pages was stacked beside the machine. With curiosity rampaging, I quickly looked through the sheets. There was no sign of the missing diary pages. It seemed to be Rosalie’s affair with the judge he was writing, though the man’s actual name wasn’t on any of the pages. She called him “my darling” and he called her “you eternal woman.” There was nothing like that in the diaries. Mason was unscrupulous, using every cheap trick in the book, and inventing a few of his own.
I took a quick look through the drawer for letters, hoping to get the scheduled publication date. Right in the top drawer there was a long envelope with the Belton Publishing Company name in the corner. I didn’t hesitate a second before opening it. A Ms. Barlow was urging him on to the complete “the manuscript discussed by phone today” at top speed. No date was given, but the letter was dated two weeks before. Just time to learn that I was doing my book, and for them to discuss it by phone. The size of the advance staggered me. No wonder he drove a Mercedes. He could have driven a team of Rolls-Royces if he’d felt like it. Ms. Barlow had signed herself “Love, Vicki.”
I rammed the letter back in the envelope, slammed the drawer, and gritted my teeth till I had stopped panting with anger. I did a quick sweep of the rest of the cottage, but couldn’t find the diary pages. Even the kitchen—including the freezer, where I discovered a pile of frozen gourmet dinners wrapped up in aluminum foil and labeled. The ones on top were spaghetti Caruso—two of them. I had a pretty good idea what treat he planned to serve tonight, and let on he’d made it himself. He never took his head up from that damned typewriter, except to scatter rugs and tablecloths around the place.
I didn’t know how long I’d been there, but the town where Brad was getting Grand Marnier wasn’t far away, so I went back to the window and crawled out, landing in the scrub beneath on my hands. I couldn’t get the window completely closed. I left it open an inch and ran home, with a look down the road to make sure he wasn’t coming yet. I sat on the lumpy sofa, hugging myself with my arms, as though to keep in my body all the vituperation that was longing to spew forth. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him with my bare hands,” I said two or three times, till the first wave of fury had dulled. “I can’t believe I’ve been such an idiot.”
Various revenges were plotted and rejected as too time-consuming. I wanted to write up phony diaries and expose Mason to lawsuits. I wanted to run back and burn his manuscript, to phone Eileen Haddon and demand more money, to sit down and finish my own book that same day and outdo him in pornography. Him and his ranting of helping me find a significant theme for my book! The hypocrisy of it— he just didn’t want me to wander into his area of sleaze. In the end, I was too tired and defeated for an
y of these schemes. Mason was halfway through his book, if he was working chronologically. Chapters ahead of me. I opened a Coke, and wiped away the lone tear that trickled down my cheek. Mixed in with the rest was a regretful memory of my summer romance that never was, and never would be. He’d only found me “sensational” to get hold of my research. He thought I was a gullible dope—and he was right. First Garth, now Brad. Did I wear a sign on my butt that said “Kick here”?
It was blind luck that Eileen found out about Hume Mason. Eileen! I should phone her, but if I did, she’d urge me on to a faster pace, when I knew in my bones I couldn’t write a word. Especially I couldn’t compete with creamy, heaving bosoms and shuddering loins. I needed a very strong shock treatment. I put on my bathing suit, went down to the dock, and dove in, without even feeling the water first. It was every bit as cold as I remembered. I swam halfway to the island, then swam back and got out, panting, so numb that all sensation was gone from my body. Only my mind was active, as active as ever, and as frustrated.
I didn’t wait till seven to call on Brad O’Malley. I saw his car under the tree when I went to my front door. With a towel wrapped around my waist like a sarong, I strode to the door and rapped sharply.
“Come on in,” he called from the kitchen. “Hi, Audrey. Be right with you. The beer’s in the fridge. I’m just starting dinner. I hope you like chicken liver and pasta.”
“Spaghetti Caruso?” I called back.
“Yeah, do you like it?”
He hadn’t slipped the pans in the oven yet. No wild aromas pervaded the cottage this time. “Why don’t you just take one of the frozen cartons from you freezer? I won’t be joining you tonight.”
His head peeked around the doorjamb. You never saw such a guilty-looking man. “Say what?”
“You heard me.”
His body followed his head around the doorjamb. He wore a curious, confused look that turned to wariness when he got a look at me. “Is something the matter?” he asked.
“What could possibly be the matter? I’m fine. I’ll be very busy. As you know, I’m writing an authorized biography of Rosalie Hart. I didn’t bring along the other diary you asked for. In fact, I’d like you to return the pages you cut out of the previous one—you remember, the pages dealing with Rosalie’s pregnancy. You’ll have to make do with what you’ve already read, and that active imagination of yours. But then you wouldn’t want to wreck your book with too many facts, Mr. Mason.”
He advanced slowly into the room. In his hand he held a wooden spoon, and he wore an apron with a picture of a smiling chef on it. He looked bewildered. “Could you run that by me again in slow motion?” he asked, blinking.
“Run it out your ear. I know who you are, and I know what you’re up to, and I want you to know I think you’re disgusting and vile.”
“Are we talking frozen dinners here?” he asked. “Listen, I really am a great chef. I made those dinners myself. I just took them out of my freezer at home . . ."
“I’m not talking about your lousy dinners! It’s the reason for them we’re discussing.”
“Hey, no strings attached!”
I was panting so hard I could hardly talk, but I couldn’t keep quiet either. “Look, I know you don’t really like me. If a three-legged, bearded lady had had those diaries, you’d have been in there, wooing her with your frozen boeuf bourguignon and your Château de Snob. You must think I’m an idiot.”
“Just unhinged,” he smiled uneasily, and came closer, reaching for my arm. “Come and sit down. I’ll pour you . . ."
I twitched away. “Alcohol isn’t going to work either. And if you were counting on continued access to my research for your book, you can forget that too. I suggest you pack up your fancy car and trot your Madrid chair and your Cuisinart back to whatever rock you crawled out from under.”
“That’s ‘Barcelona chair.’ Listen, if you think I’m using Rosalie’s diaries for a book or something, you’ve got it all wrong. That seems to be the gist of your tirade.”
“Part of it, not the gist. The gist is that the masquerade is over, Mr. Mason.”
“Mr. Mason?” he repeated dumbly.
“As in Hume, pornographer, sleazebag Mason. You can call Ms. Vicki at Belton and tell her you struck out. You’ll have to move your ass and actually do some work yourself. You should be good at digging up dirt by now, you son of a bitch.”
He actually had the nerve to smile! “Ah.—you swear when you’re mad. That’s good. Relieves the tension. But I don’t understand what you’re mad about. Did I have a visitor while I was out? Did some phone call get misrouted to you? Where’d you get these crazy ideas?”
“Vicki didn’t phone, or arrive in person. Funny you should think she had, when you claim to be ignorant.”
“I am ignorant! Innocent! What I’m trying to find out is what put this bee in your bonnet.”
“I had a revelation. A prelapsarian revelation.”
"Sounds painful.” He gave me a doubtful look.
“Bullshit!” I shouted in exasperation, and stormed out, clutching at my slipping sarong.
Just as I reached my door, Brad opened his and called after me: “Does this mean you’re breaking our date tonight?”
“You figure it out, Professor.”
A little later, as soon as he had got the frozen food into the oven, Brad opened his windows to let the fumes of spaghetti Caruso waft gently toward my door. I closed it. Actually the very thought of eating anything’s liver turns my stomach, so it was no lure.
The confrontation cleared the air, and my head. I’d done the right thing to have it out. I went determinedly back to work and pounded the typewriter till my head ached. The adrenaline was flowing. Words magically strung themselves together into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, till I had five pages full—also one ashtray. After I emptied it, I opened the fridge for a beer, to reward myself. Then, after the store was closed, I remembered I was out of beer. I opened the door again to clear away the smoke, and was surrounded by the tantalizing smell of garlic and onions, oregano and chicken, which did not smell like livers at all. I closed the door again and made coffee, to drive away the other odors.
I turned on the TV and sat staring at the moving pictures, without really seeing them. I looked at the phone, which didn’t ring; at the door, which was silent; then I looked within myself for entertainment. There was only one possible subject to consider, so I thought of it.
I’d shown him a thing or two. He must feel like two cents, and the wretch didn’t even have the manners to apologize, or try to explain. You’d think he’d phone up and say he was sorry at least. After all, we were both adults. I didn’t expect a man to be a saint. God, after Garth I didn’t expect much of men, but this went beyond even Garth Schuyler’s duplicity. There’s some excuse for passion; this was a coldly, carefully planned deception. It was Belton’s fault, for offering him so much money. It wasn’t, though.
Belton hadn’t told him how to get his research. Belton hadn’t told him to call me “sensational.” Hadn’t he meant any of it? By nine, I decided that if he came suitably attired in sackcloth and ashes, we might discuss the matter. There would be no forgiving, but we could discuss. By nine-thirty I realized the elegant Mr. Mason wouldn’t be caught in sackcloth, even if it had a Gucci label.
At nine thirty-five, he went to his car, wearing a light-colored suit. A man didn’t put on a suit to go out alone, say to a drive-in movie. A suit like that was for a date—maybe dancing. I felt as angry and cheated as if he’d broken the date, instead of me. At least he wasn’t writing tonight. I had already worked past the saturation point, so in a fit of boredom, I opened Love’s Last Longing, and became lost in the perils of an innocent child-woman bearing the unlikely name of Melora with eyes of an unconvincing turquoise shade. She was taken captive by a Mogul emperor during some long-ago war.
I read till my eyes ached, marveling how Rosalie Wildewood could ever conceive of such a heroine, who juggled the moon and star
s with one hand, while the emperor nibbled from the other. She nobly spurned his offer to wear the empress’s crown, choosing instead to be a kitchen slave. Easy for Melora. She knew a prince was lurking in the next chapter. I wondered what he was like, and before I knew it, I was reading again. I literally couldn’t put it down.
Lorraine Taylor didn’t phone back. I went on hoping for quite a while, because of the time difference. When my eyes got too tired to read, I went down to the dock to look at the moon and the water. No emperor or prince sailed up to kidnap me. I must have been crazy to come here, out in the sticks, with nothing to do once the sun set. I drove into town and had a bottle of beer alone at a bar. I left half of it when some Neanderthal in a leather jacket tried to hit on me. I drove home by a circuitous route, in case he took it into his head to follow me. Brad’s car still wasn’t back. The Simcoes’ curtains juggled, timing me in. Old Simcoe would be regretting this rift between us two red-hot lovers.
I wondered what Brad had said to him, to give him the idea we were an item. I felt suddenly frightened, alone in the cottage. I locked the door, but the Neanderthal from the bar, or someone like him, could get in without much trouble. I wouldn’t go out alone again at night. But I’d make sure to get in a supply of beer and Coke.
I wanted to hear a human voice, and made the mistake of phoning Mom. She asked three or four times how I was, meaning was I suicidal about Garth and Helen. When I convinced her I was all right, she told me about some new wedding presents that people had sent. I told her the book was going fine, and no, I wasn’t lonesome. There was a terrific guy next door. His name was Simcoe, I said. Eddie Simcoe. He was chasing after me so hard I couldn’t get any work done.
