The one thing I didn't like was that she was always asking questions about my business, who did I buy from and who did I sell to. You'd think a been around twist would know better than to pry.
After all, a man's business is private and she should have respected that.
I never told her word one, but she kept pestering me. So one night I took her out to a French place, and over the brandy and espresso I put it to her straight.
"Laura," I said, "I like you, and we've had a lot of laughs together.
But if you keep digging into my private business I'm going to dump you.
I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. I've worked hard to build up my career, and I'm not telling you or anyone else how I manage it.
Okay?"
She took out one of those long, thin cigars she smoked, and I held a light for her. I noticed her hands were shaking.
"Willie," she said, "you've always treated me square, and I don't want you to dump me. It's true I've been trying to nose into your business, and now I'm going to tell you why."
And she told me that Big Bobby Gurk had put her on the pad to find out who my contact was at Mcwhortle Laboratory. She didn't know what the deal was between me and Gurk, all she knew was that he wanted to cut me out.
"Uh-huh," I said. "I figured it might be something like that. I admire your coming clean with me. I owe you a big one."
"Jesus, Willie," she said, "you won't tell Gurk, will you?
He's got some muscle in his organization, and they'll feed me to the sharks if he finds out I snitched."
"Of course I won't tell him, Laura. What kind of a rat do you think I am? You just keep stalling him until I figure out how to handle this. it's got to be something cute because Gurk can be a mean bastard when he's crossed."
I gave it some heavy thought for the next few days, but I couldn't finagle a way to dump Gurk. If I expected to score by betting on fighters and football teams that had been doped with ZAP, I needed Bobby because he knew bookies all over, the country and could cobble up a giant swindle.
Then I got a call from Jessica Fiddler, and I went over to her pad in the early evening. She told me she had balled Mcwhortle that afternoon.
"The old man came on like a young stud," she said. "And when I asked him how come he had so much juice, he told me he just watched a TV tape of some mice who had been injected with that testosterone stuff.
According to Mcwhortle's story, the injected male mouse had kept porking female mice until he fell over in a dead faint.
Then, after he rested awhile, he started all over again.
"That's interesting," I said. "You mean the ZAP injection gave the mouse a rat-sized hard-on?"
"That's what Mcwhortle said. He also told me the chemist working on it is trying to cut down on the Spanish fly effect because they want the pill to produce killers, not rapists."
"It must be powerful stuff. Did he say when it would be ready in pill form?"
"No, but he said it might be tested on human volunteers in a couple of months."
"Did he happen to mention the name of the chemist working on it?"
"No," she said, "he didn't."
"Try to find out, will you, less. It's very important."
"How much important?" she asked.
This doll was developing a galloping case of the gimmes, but there was nothing I could do about it. She was a key player, and I needed to keep her happy.
"An extra grand for the chemist's name," I told her.
"Come on, Willie," she said. "You can do better than that."
"Get the chemist's name first," I said, "and then we'll talk business.
Okay?"
She nodded, and we left it at that.
I drove back to Laura's place to dress for a big affair at my private club. it was called Waltz Night in Old Vienna, and I had bought a lovely bouffant ballgown in peach-colored taffeta.
Laura had promised to set my strawberry blond wig in a Veronica Lake style.
I was excited about Waltz Night, of course, but I was even more excited by what Jessica Fiddler had told me. If the ZAP pill produced a sexual rush, there was more money to be made from that than from feeding it to some palooka heavyweight or secondrate football team.
What I had in mind was getting hold of a sample pill, having it copied, and bootlegging it all over the country as the first space-age aphrodisiac. You know how much men would pay to get it up whenever they wanted and keep it up as long as they liked?
Millions!
The best thing was that I didn't need Big Bobby Gurk to pull off that caper, I could do it myself. Why, I could even peddle the stuff mail order as a vitamin or diet supplement before the Feds shut me down or thieves moved in, swiped the formula, and began hawking cut-rate imitations. I figured to make a mint before either of those things happened.
"Hey, Willie," Laura said, as she helped me with my mascara, "you're really high tonight. Good news?"
It's The Luck," I said. "It hasn't deserted me yet." must confess I was horrified by my reaction to direct inhalation of oxytocin in its aerosolized form. When I plugged that soaked inhaler into my nostrils, I had no idea what the results might be.
But all ethical researchers must test new products on themselves before recruiting other human volunteers.
My behavior after inhaling the hormone was extremely embarrassing. The odd thing was that I was fully aware of my ridiculous conduct at the time but unable to control it. I knew I was being overly affectionate toward Greg Barrow, my daughter, and my husband, but I could not resist the urge to exhibit my love.
Fortunately my excessive elation proved to be temporary. It ended when I suddenly became so sleepy I feared I might collapse if I didn't get to bed immediately. When I awoke the next day, I could discern no aftereffects other than a slight dryness of the nasal passages.
It was obvious to me that aerosolized oxytocin was much too powerful to be used in a perfume in an unadulterated form. But its ability to modify mood and behavior convinced me that in the proper strength it would be a unique and valuable base for the new fragrance I was creating. it could truly make Cuddle the warm, intimate, caring scent it was intended to be.
And so I set to work on the long trial-and-error process of combining a diluted measure of the hormone with more conventional essences. I recall that during this period of experimentation I didn't doubt for a minute that I would achieve my goal of producing a perfect Cuddle. I never stopped to consider the consequences, and that eventually proved to be a nearly fatal error.
But meanwhile I was faced with a worsening crisis at home.
My husband's drinking and philandering had become so outrageous that I was driven to an open and possibly final confrontation.
It began with the cliched cause of so many marital discords, Herman forgot our wedding anniversary, the tenth. I had prepared a fine dinner, a roast beef, twicebaked potatoes, and haricots verts with almonds, to be served with a very expensive bordeaux bottled the year we were married. Herman didn't come home for the anniversary dinner, of course, and poor Tania and I were forced to make the best of it and pretend it was a special party.
Herm finally arrived around ten-thirty, after Tania had gone to bed-thank God! He wasn't completely inebriated, but it was obvious he had been drinking heavily. I was seated in the kitchen when he came in.
He headed directly for the refrigerator-for a cold, beer, I presumed-but then noticed the unopened hottle of wine on the countertop.
"Hey," he said, picking it up to examine the label, "what the hell is this? Expensive stuff."
"Note the vintage?" I asked.
"Sure. It's ten years old. So?"
I looked at him, and his face froze in a goofy grin. "Oh, shit," he said. "The year we got married. Is today our anniversary, lion?"
I didn't answer.
"Well, what the hell," he said. "I'll make it up to you.
Maybe we'll go out tomorrow night for a nice dinner."
"I prepared a nice dinner,
" I told him. "A roast beef. But you didn't come home."
"Well, dear," he said, almost aggrievedly, "you should have said something about it. How was I to know? " It was at that moment that I made up my mind. Certainly I had suffered more serious slights and disappointments, but at that instant I decided I could no longer endure his boorish behavior.
"Herman," I said, "I want a divorce."
He blinked a few times. "Come on, lion," he said in a thick voice, "you don't really mean that."
"I really do. I suggest you sleep in the spare bedroom tonight. I'll see a lawyer tomorrow, and then we'll talk about permanent arrangements.
I don't wish to continue living with you."
"Why the hell are you so pissed?" he demanded. "So I came home late for dinner. I forgot our anniversary. What's the big deal. It happens all the time."
"It's not just tonight," I said. "It's all the nights you haven't come home. Your drinking. Your playing around.
I've had it, Herm. I want out."
"I don't know what you're bitching about," he blustered.
"Haven't I provided a good home? You got your own car. Who paid for that roast beef? A lot of women would like to have what you've got."
"What have I got?" I said furiously. "A drunken husband who makes no effort to conceal his infidelities. A lousy father who never spends time with his only child. A miserable lover who's lost all interest in his wife. You think other women would like to have that? Think again, buster."
"Look," he said earnestly, "I admit I haven't been perfectbut what man is? I'm under a lot of stress at the office, a lot of pressure to produce. I have to unwind or I'll go nuts. Maybe I haven't thought enough about how it bothers you and Tania, but it's not because I don't love you. I do, I really do. Listen, if I didn't have a home to come back to, I'd be lost. Divorce isn't the answer, Marleen, you know that.
You still love me, don't you?"
"Yes," I said, "God help me, I still love you. But love isn't enough anymore. Not for me and not for Tania. We both need love in return.
We need a man of the house who listens to our problems and helps solve them. We need a husband and father who cares And you just don't care, Herman."
"Well, screw you! " he said wrathfully, glowering down at me.
"If you don't like the way I act, then get your goddamned divorce.
Who needs you? You're more interested in that stupid job of yours than you are in me. And when it comes to the job you're supposed to do in bed-forget it! You're a total washout." , "How the hell would you know?" I screamed at him. "How long has it been since you've even tried? And if you did, you'd be too soused to do anything. So don't talk to me about sex. Go fuck one of your chippies.
God knows what you've picked up from them.
I always make sure I wash a glass you've used. I don't want to catch anything." "What the fuck are you talking about?" he yelled. "You think I don't use-" Then he caught himself and didn't finish what he was going to say. He took a deep breath. "Listen," he said hoarsely,
"we're both upset. I admit I forgot our anniversary, and I apologize.
But let's both sleep on this divorce thing. I don't want to lose you, Marleen, really I don't. I'll sleep in the spare bedroom, and maybe tomorrow we'll both see things more clearly and can talk it over like mature adults. Okay?"
"I'm going to bed," I said. "There's cold beef in the fridge. just like you, lover boy-cold beef."
He uttered one awful curse, and with a sweeping motion of his arm knocked the bottle of anniversary wine to the floor. It shattered into a million slivers, and the red bordeaux spread everywhere. We both stared at what he had done, shocked.
Then I looked at him. "What are you trying to prove?" I asked. I really wasn't sure what I meant.
I went upstairs and listened at Tania's door. I couldn't hear her crying or stirring about, so I hoped she had slept through the argument.
I went into my own bedroom and locked the door. I didn't even have the energy to wash up, just pulled on a nightgown and got into bed.
I thought of what he had said and what I had said, and what I should have said. The whole situation was just so sad that I wanted to weep, and I did, for a short while.
It suddenly struck me that the day had been utterly bizarre.
I had spent eight hours trying to create a fragrance that would make people more loving, more caring, and I had ended the day screaming at an uncaring mate whose love seemed reserved for himself I think it may have been then, in the hour or so that it took me to fall asleep, that I began to wonder if the solution to my personal problems might not lie in the solution to my professional problems. it was possible.
The reason I was putting on weight was that I was so unhappy.
I told that to Dr. Noble, and all she said was, "Mmm." But I really believed it. I know I wore a size 6 when I got married and now I wore a 12. That tells you something, doesn't it? When you're unhappy, you're snacking all the time, like Pepperidge Farm cookies and M amp;Ms. I wasn't a fatso, not yet I wasn't, but I was more zaftig than I wanted to be. I know my boobs were bigger and also my fanny. That was okay, I could live with that. But I was beginning to get flab under my upper arms, and my thighs were getting loose. That revolted me.
I mean I used to have a fantastic figure, everyone said so.
I wore the world's teeny-weeniest bikinis. But I guess those days are gone forever. Now I wear a swimsuit with a built-in bra and a skirt, for God's sake. I knew I looked exactly like what I was, a plump housewife with a freezer full of frozen packages of macaroni and cheese.
That's why it gave my ego a boost when Herman came on to me. I knew he played around a lot, but it was good for my morale to know there was at least one guy who had the hots for me.
I sure as hell wasn't getting any heavy breathing from my husband.
One morning, after Marleen and Greg had left for work and the kids were out playing, Herm came over for a cup of coffee. I made instant for both of us and sat down at the kitchen table with him.
I put out a plate of jelly doughnuts.
"What's with you?" I asked him. "You look worn out."
"I guess," he said, sighing. "Marleen and I had a big goaround last night."
"Yeah? About what?"
"I forgot it was our anniversary. She made a special dinner and bought a bottle of wine. I came home late, and she got sore."
"She'll get over it," I told him.
"I don't think so," he said. "She wants a divorce."
"Oh, shit," I said.
"My sentiments exactly. We talked about it again this morning before she left for work, and she's bound and determined.
She's going to see a lawyer."
"I'm sorry, Herm."
"Yeah. I am, too. Listen, Mabel, I hope you won't tell anyone about this. Not even Greg."
"Of course not. What happens now?"
"I don't really know. I guess I'll move out and take a motel room somewhere. Maybe if I'm not around for a while, she'll calm down and change her mind."
"Maybe," I said.
We finished our coffee and doughnuts. I stood up, and started putting the dishes in the sink. I was wearing an old ratty robe and my hair was up in curlers, but it didn't seem to bother him.
He got up and moved me around so I was facing him.
He loosened the belt on my robe and opened it. I was wearing white cotton panties, but that's all. He gave me a once-over.
"You're some woman, Mabel," he said. "We could make each other happy."
He leaned down to kiss my bazooms, then looked up at me. "If I get a place at a motel, will you come visit me?"
I didn't answer, and he bent down to kiss me again. He sure had a wicked tongue.
"Will you?" he repeated.
"All right," I said.
I said it without hardly thinking of what I was saying. I just said,
"All right," like it was something I had thought about for a long time and finally decided to do. But it wasn't like that at a
ll. It was more a spur-of-the-moment thing. I think it was his tongue.
But after he left, I thought about it and I got scared. I mean if Marleen wanted a divorce, maybe she already had a private detective following him. To get evidence, you know. And if I shacked up with him, maybe we'd get caught and I'd be named in court as the Other Woman, and that would just kill me, let alone what it would do to Greg and Chester.
I thought about it all day and ate a whole can of honeyroasted peanuts.
I didn't feel much like cooking that night, so I made a big platter of spaghetti and meatballs, using three frozen packages. And I cut up some iceberg lettuce and doused it with Paul Newman's salad dressing.
He's such a great actor.
After dinner, Chester went outside, to play I guess, and Greg went into his den to work, as usual. I watched a two-hour television travelogue on Tibet. How about those yaks?
Chester came home and went to bed. I cleaned up the kitchen and then went upstairs to take my shower like I do every night.
While I was drying off, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror and wondered if I should have things done. You know, like a tummy tuck, an ass lift, and stuff like that. Also, they can vacuum fat out of your thighs. I saw it on a TV special.
I was doing my nails in the bedroom when Greg came in.
"Did you lock up?" I asked him.
"Doors and windows," he said. "All secure."
We said exactly the same goddamned thing every goddamned night.
What I had done was put on that black see-through lace teddy I had bought from Laura at Hashbeam's Bo-teek. I wasn't going to sleep in it, of course, but I thought it might tickle Greg's fancy, if you know what I mean.
I waited for him to notice, but he didn't even glance at me.
He went into the bedroom for his shower, and when he came out, he was wearing his pajamas. I don't know why but when my husband wears pajama jacket and pants, it looks like a business suit.
I stood up and posed like a model. "How do you like it?" I asked him.
He looked at the lace teddy. "Very nice," he said, and went to the bed to turn down the covers.
Private Pleasures Page 11
