by Luanne Rice
“She was always dropping in on our parties, telling us how much she loved being with the young people,” John said. “It was sad, really, when I think about it now. She was awfully lonely. Our father was always off on business, flying all over the world.” He shook his head. “Like me. Like Nick, Georgie. Sometimes I see a young guy like Nick with a wonderful wife like you, and I wonder why he does it.”
Helen placed her hand on mine. “Maybe that’s what I was trying to tell you that day at my apartment.”
“You were thinking about your father,” I said.
“Among others,” Helen said. “Men. The men of Wall Street.” She leaned over, to see past me to John.
“Don’t be sexist,” John said. “Weren’t we just talking about Jean?”
“Poor Mum,” Helen said. “You know, I’m as old as she was when she died. She tilted her head. “I can’t imagine loving a boy that age.”
“Do you know why he killed her?” I asked.
“Heat, lust, I don’t know,” Helen said. “They got carried away for a while, and he thought she was going to leave Daddy for him.”
“Naturally he was rather fond of her bankroll,” John said. “But we know it was more than that.”
“Jasper has never gotten over it,” Helen said.
“You don’t get over something like that,” John said. “You get on with it, but you never forget.”
We ate a little of our tepid dinners. Then John ordered three cognacs. I drank mine feeling sad. I thought of what John had said earlier, about my asking “gentle questions.” I hadn’t had to ask many that night; he and Helen hadn’t needed much encouragement.
“It’s quite a life, isn’t it, Georgie?” John asked after a while, pulling out a cell phone. “What do you say we give Nick a call?”
“Why, thank you—” I said, wondering whether I owed John’s kindness to his reminiscence about the distance between his parents. “But that’s all right. It was a wonderful idea. And thank you for dinner.”
“It was our pleasure,” John said. For the first time in all the years I had known him, he kissed my cheek. Then I turned and kissed Helen’s. We sat there for a moment, and then the maître d’ came to pull out the big round table. We said goodnight and I went upstairs to bed.
THAT HOTEL BED was so big, a sprawling affair, and Nick was nowhere in it. During the night I explored it with my hands, my toes, pretending that Nick had fallen asleep and rolled just out of reach. All the particles of yellow light in New York, that brassy light peculiar to the city, were somehow concentrated in the air outside my window. Filmy window shades set the mood for romance, but did nothing to keep that light out. I lay on my back for a long time, then I tried my side. Finally I did what I had sworn I would not do: I called Nick in London. It was five A.M. there.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“What? That’s okay. Is anything wrong?” Nick asked, sounding perfectly awake, but I could envision him struggling up from sleep, his hair tousled, his pajamas half-unbuttoned.
“Nothing much. I can’t sleep. I miss you. I had dinner with John and Helen, and we talked about their mother.”
“Their mother.”
“She was murdered when they were children. It was very sad.”
“That’s terrible.” Long pause. “No wonder you can’t sleep.” Another long pause. I could see him lying in his hotel bed, holding the telephone, not really able to wake up. The image made me sleepy, and I smiled. “I’m going to hypnotize you to sleep, okay?” he asked.
“Okay.”
“Lie back. Put your head on the pillow and close your eyes. Now think of the Point. It’s a warm summer night, and we’re taking a swim.”
“You and me?” I asked, my eyes closed.
“Mmmm. We’re treading water. It’s nice and warm, but cool at the same time. Just listen to the waves. Whoosh, whoosh,” he said, and I nearly laughed at Nick trying to sound like a wave. He must have been sleeping deeply.
He was silent for so long, I knew he had fallen asleep again. I loved the idea of drifting off myself, holding the receiver that connected me to Nick in London, but I couldn’t bear the thought of the phone bill. “Nick?” I said, and when there was no answer, I said, “Sweet dreams,” and hung up the phone.
I did get some sleep that night, but the next morning I had a headache and felt confused. The phone call had reminded me of the old days with Nick: we were sweet and loving, always available for each other. Sipping coffee in my room, I felt anger building at the thought that one of us had played a trick on the other. Would he have been as kind if he hadn’t been asleep? Had he acted loving simply out of habit? I realized that I was doing what he disliked, questioning all of his motives; I didn’t want to do it, but that morning in New York, I had no choice. As if to drive away all the hope inspired by our sleepy phone call, every evil thought about Jean, about Nick’s despair, about our sad destiny, came back to jeer at me.
My sole appointment that day was with a photographer. He was scheduled to take pictures of me to accompany an excerpt from my second quarterly report in Vanguard Magazine. I had felt comfortable during the interviews, but photographs made me nervous. I looked through my clothes, trying to decide what to wear. After a while I called Clare for advice, and she suggested I wear red, because it would look good with my dark hair. Honora was sitting at Clare’s kitchen table, and although I didn’t want to talk to her, she insisted.
“Wear lots of makeup, honey,” she said. “I know you’re not used to it, but believe me—you’ll be glad you did. Years of experience has taught me that without lipstick, the camera makes you look like a washout.”
“Thanks,” I said, wanting to end the conversation before she started asking me about Nick. I could imagine the two of them speculating on what was happening between us. Of course they cared about me; I had no doubt of that, but their concern rattled me.
God, I felt angry at them, sitting on Bennison Point, lamenting my marriage’s change of course. Honora didn’t know romance. Neither did Clare. Did she care whether Donald came home or not? She considered his late hours inevitable, assumed that he would be home when he could. To Clare and Honora, husbands were breadwinners. You had to make allowances for them; after all, they were only men. I thought of Nick’s bare back, tan and muscled, and felt something so thrilling I had to cross my legs.
As my photo session grew nearer, I began to try on clothes. I had brought two outfits from home, and I tried each one three times. Each looked fine the first time, not quite perfect the second. By the third time, I wondered how I could ever have bought any of them. I ran to Bergdorf Goodman and took the elevator to the dress department. But did I want to wear a dress? Maybe I wanted to project a different image, something more intellectual and sophisticated. Slacks. In fact, Bergdorf’s was the wrong store. I hurried down to street level, out the door, around the corner to Bendel’s. But everything I saw seemed to come from animals: leopard spots, tiger stripes, belts of snakeskin, and alligator shoes. Alligator shoes would look great with Chanel. If I hurried to Saks, maybe I could find a Chanel suit. Did they carry Chanel? Did I really want to spend all that money on a suit for one set of pictures? I imagined Nick picking up the magazine, seeing me on the page. I wanted to look beautiful, but a little mysterious, dressed perfectly. My photographic image would woo him. Makeup, I thought. Honora had said to wear makeup. I stopped at Bendel’s ground floor makeup department and bought some lipstick called “Poppy Field.”
Back at the hotel I dressed in the first outfit I had tried on that morning: tight black skirt with a full white silk blouse, Grampa’s gold watch chain as a necklace, earrings made from my father’s gold cuff links. They were monogrammed “TS,” and had brought me luck before. I checked the time; I had forty minutes until the photographer arrived. I went through notes for my current report, checked myself in the mirror a few times, then decided to tempt fate. I called Nick again. Although it was only seven o’clock at night in Londo
n, he was in his hotel room.
“Hi, baby,” I said.
“Thanks for my wake-up call,” he said.
“I’m sorry about that. I hope you got enough sleep.”
“Plenty. How are you? Did you finally fall asleep?”
“Sort of. Right now I’m waiting for the photographer. I’m a little nervous.”
“Don’t be—you’ll look beautiful. Did you see your interview in the Times?”
“I think he said it would be out tomorrow,” I said. “I’m surprised you’re home already. Light day of work?”
“Not really, but things are stalled for the moment. We thought we’d go to the theater tonight.”
I clenched my teeth to keep from saying “We?” Instead I said “Oh?”
“Yes. I thought I’d like the Lorca play with Judi Dench, but Jean’s in the mood for a musical.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Anyway, she got us tickets to Walking Shoes.” He laughed. “She claims she bought them from a scalper on the Underground. You know how hard it is to get tickets to that show? It’s about to open in New York, and every American is rushing to see it here, so they can tell all their friends they saw it in London.”
It would always be a fun little story, I thought, how Nick and Jean saw Walking Shoes in London the week it opened on Broadway. I felt very sad.
“I hope you enjoy it,” I said.
“Well, I have my doubts, but you know I love the theater. I’d much rather be seeing the Lorca with you.”
But you’re not, I thought, and that seemed to be the important thing.
“Georgie, you’re not saying anything,” he said.
“I know. I’m mulling.”
“Mull if you want, but don’t worry. That call last night was really nice. I liked being your lullaby.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling blocked, listening to him say the nice words.
We said goodbye. We each said “I love you,” but I felt too depressed to remark on that. The words meant a lot to me. They were anything but hollow, but they didn’t make up for the hateful fact that Nick was on his way to the West End with Jean Snizort.
10
THE PHOTOGRAPHER ARRIVED A LITTLE LATE. I’d been so nervous, anticipating his arrival, I kept hopping out of my seat every few seconds—combing my hair again, looking in the mirror, deciding the whole thing was a mistake, trying to get over my talk with Nick. Flushed and sweaty, I answered the doorbell; the photographer stood there holding two square camera cases. Everything about him was square: stocky, with the body of a wrestler, he had pale green eyes and hair the color of a palomino’s mane. We shook hands. His name was Mark Constable.
“Do you need a minute?” he asked, obviously a reference to my disheveled state.
“Oh,” I said, blushing. I touched my cheeks. “I look terrible, I know. Is there anything I can do? I mean, can you give me some advice? I’m not used to having my picture taken . . .”
He stood there watching me, expressionless. “No, you look pretty,” he said, and for some reason that made me feel happy. “Let me fix up my cameras, and we can go out,” he said.
I gestured at the living room, and he placed his cases on a low glass table. He began removing an astonishing assortment of cameras and lenses, screwing them together, holding his light meter in the air and making it flash. I watched him. His smallest movements seemed full of intensity. The way he removed a lens cap and placed it in one of the many pockets of his big khaki coat seemed deliberate, part of a great and elaborate plan. A glance at my reflection in the glass cabinet showed me my lipstick had worn off, but I didn’t reapply it. I felt a peculiar mix of exhilaration and exhaustion; having my picture taken seemed like a fun thing to do, but I wished I could lie down on the sofa and defer it to another day.
“Where are you going to take my picture?” I asked, wondering why he needed six cameras.
“I thought we’d walk around the city a little. My editor didn’t know what you looked like—you might have been seventy, for all he knew. If you were, I’d have gone with a more sedate shoot—in the library, say. But you’re young and pretty, so maybe we’ll try the park.”
“Well, thanks,” I said, thinking it was the second time he had said I was pretty. I was keeping track.
Traffic outside was crazy. We stood on the curb, waiting to cross Central Park South, but taxis and trucks whizzed by with barely a space in between. When two taxis nearly collided, we grabbed our chance. “Come on,” Mark said, holding my elbow. I ran beside him, but he stopped me in the middle of the street. He stared at me for an instant, frowning, as though he were concentrating very hard. Suddenly traffic was streaming past us on both sides; I stood perfectly still and prayed I wouldn’t die.
“Fantastic,” Mark said, focusing one of the cameras on me.
“Not here!” I gasped, feeling the hot wind of a speeding bus in my face.
“It’s great, you look so pretty with those skyscrapers in the background and the yellow cabs going by.” Three “pretties.” I began to relax a little. We’d been standing there thirty seconds and weren’t dead yet. “It’s dynamic, vibrant,” he called over the traffic’s roar. “Think of your work. Think of what these pictures will say about the Swift Observatory—you’re in the fray.”
I began to strike poses, like a fashion model. The velocity of passing traffic acted like a wind machine; my hair whipped around my face and I started to imitate Cheryl Tiegs, Christie Brinkley, then, what the hell—Tina Turner and Madonna.
“Beautiful,” Mark said, coming close enough to my face that I could hear his camera’s clicks and whirs. His cameras dangled on straps around his neck. Dropping one camera, he took up another. Cars slowed down, their occupants craning to see whether I was someone famous. Mark stood inches away; beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, and I smelled the faint scent of aftershave. I was smiling at him and he was smiling back. We were having fun in the middle of the street.
From there we went into the subway; he took my picture on the platform, beneath the mosaic sign saying “Columbus Circle.” We watched two new trains go by before one covered with grafitti came along. “Come on!” Mark called, and I jumped aboard. He snapped me hanging on the strap, studying the nearly obliterated map, sitting on the bench seat. We stepped off a few minutes later in the middle of Times Square. “Come on!” Mark said, running up the stairs.
“I thought you said we were going into the park,” I said.
“No, you’re a city girl,” he said. “You look so pretty in your black-and-white outfit, we need some color to set you off.”
My memory of that photo session fills me with excitement and danger; the music of screeching brakes and blaring horns plays in the background. After two hours Mark looked at his watch and said he was hungry. “Do you have time for a bite?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. We started walking uptown, toward my hotel. The sun had already gone behind the tall buildings along Sixth Avenue, and I shivered slightly.
We stopped at a brasserie that reminded me of Paris. Tables lined the sidewalk. Mark glanced at me, saw I was chilly, said “Let’s go inside.” Mistaking us for a married couple or lovers, the maître d’ seated us side by side on a banquette. We each ordered a glass of red wine; Mark ordered a hamburger.
“Tell me more about the Swift Observatory,” he said, and I did while he ate. Then I asked him about his work.
“I’m mainly freelance, and I usually do news stories. An assignment like this is unusual for me.” He sat erect, looking straight ahead, though his voice sounded relaxed and his eyes occasionally slid to look at me.
“What sort of news stories?”
“Well, I used to be based in the Middle East. I took a lot of pictures of fighting. Rubble and injuries, military installations. A lot of hurt people.”
I imagined his pictures, the sort you see in news magazines. Bloody faces, bewildered children, bodies in open graves, holes in the sides of concrete buildings. For a second I f
lashed to our position in the midst of traffic, and the risks we had taken. Did he seek these risks, or was he simply used to them?
“What are you doing in New York?” I asked.
“I wanted to come back to the States for a while. I was getting numb over there. My editor would call, tell me about fifteen people dying in a bus explosion. The next day it would be seven people killed by land mines. The events lost their distinction. My friend asked me if the child in one picture was a boy or a girl, and I didn’t know. I hadn’t bothered to notice.”
We sat quietly; I studied his face for signs that he was remembering sad, ugly things, but it remained impassive.
“It’s nice being back,” he went on. “I see my family quite a bit—they live in New Jersey. And the work here is different, nice. I didn’t get many specific assignments taking pictures of interesting women over there.”
Interesting, not pretty, I thought.
“Are you married?” I asked.
He laughed. “No. I’m not sure it would be possible for me to get married. I had a girlfriend—we were serious. But I travel all the time, and there’s no predicting the next assignment.”
“Did your girlfriend travel with you?” I asked, leaning forward to see his face, really wanting to hear his answer.
“When she could. She’s a reporter, and sometimes we had the same assignment.”
What a bond that must have been, I thought, sharing the feeling of danger, the memories of death and destruction. I wondered why the relationship hadn’t worked, if one had wanted more from it than the other, but I didn’t feel like asking.
“Are you married?” he asked, though of course he had already seen my wedding ring.
