Crazy in Love

by Luanne Rice

“Yes.”

  “Is your husband here with you? He must be really proud.”

  “Oh, he is. Proud, not here, I mean. I mean, he’s proud of me, but he’s in London. He’s working there.”

  “Really?” Mark asked, and I thought I detected disbelief in his voice. I imagined he was wondering how any husband could leave me, a woman he had called “pretty” four times, alone in New York. The thought made me smile.

  “He’s a lawyer,” I said, and I betrayed Nick by thinking how much closer Mark’s work was to my heart. I thought of Nick, of his deals, of the millions and billions that existed for him on paper and for me not at all except to indicate how busy Nick would be, and I suddenly felt sad for Nick, for all he was missing by living out his days amid papers and numbers.

  “The pictures of you will be wonderful,” Mark said. “Those shots of you in the middle of the street really fit the work you do. You’re like a reporter. Everyone thinks reporters do desk work, but that’s the least of it—they’re always taking risks. They get very involved. I read those pieces you did on the women in Chicago. You really entered their lives, and that came across.”

  “You read my pieces?”

  “Yes. They’re good. You didn’t interpret, or try to make the story more dramatic than it naturally was. You just gave the facts. That’s what I try to do in my news pictures.” He grinned. “Shooting you was more fun. I wanted to make the surroundings complement the subject, which was easy. Still, I acted as editor more than I usually do.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering what that meant.

  “We should go,” Mark said, looking at his watch. “I have to take pictures of two prizewinning architects.”

  “Okay,” I said, disappointed it was over already.

  “I have to stop by your hotel, to pick up my camera cases.”

  We walked a few blocks along the park, through the dark canyon of trees and tall buildings. On the street it felt like evening, but from my high room we could see the sun was an hour away from setting. Mark peered out the window. I saw that he wasn’t simply enjoying the view: he was assessing the light, distances, composition.

  “Let’s take another picture,” he said.

  “Are you sure you have time?” I asked.

  He nodded, placing his hands on my shoulders and guiding me onto the balcony. He was silent, setting up the shot. I leaned against the wrought-iron rail, watching him choose which camera he would use. They hung from his neck, lenses of varying lengths pointing out. He found the one he wanted. Raising it to his eye, he began to twist the lens. He focused on me, lowered the camera to look at me with his bare eyes, raised the camera, then lowered it again. The declining light had turned the hotel’s facade golden. I stood there, squinting slightly. He crossed the balcony to me, then gently pushed back my hair. It fell into my eyes again. He gazed at me, then pushed it back.

  Can’t you imagine how it feels when someone with six cameras around his neck, all pointed at you, walks across the balcony to brush the hair back from your forehead? Feeling faint, I closed my eyes. I wanted him to kiss me. But then I heard the shutter click; he was just taking another picture.

  I opened my eyes and smiled. He took a few more shots, then put his cameras away.

  “Maybe this is strange, asking you this,” he said, standing at the door. “I know you’re married, but would you like to have a late dinner tonight?”

  “Tonight? Oh, I can’t tonight,” I said, thinking of how I had wanted him to kiss me.

  “That’s too bad. I would have liked that. Well, it was nice meeting you,” Mark said, sounding disappointed. We shook hands, and he left.

  Closing the door after him, I imagined the kiss that never happened: he would brush the hair out of my eyes, and his hand would slide to the back of my neck. Strong, but tender, he would stare into my eyes, then both of us would tilt our heads, our eyes would close, our lips would touch. I leaned against the door, thinking of his soft lips, and my eyes flew open.

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” I said, beginning to pace the room. I felt knifed by the agonies of loss, of betrayal; on one hand, I had betrayed Nick merely by wishing that Mark would kiss me. Like Jimmy Carter, I had lusted in my heart. On the other hand I agonized because Mark hadn’t kissed me, and I had really wanted him to. I still did. If he knocked at the door, I would welcome him to my lips with open arms.

  Madly I tore to the telephone and dialed Clare’s number. “Hello?” she said. I heard Eugene singing in the background.

  “Clare, I’m in deep trouble. I need to talk to you.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding alarmed.

  “I feel something for . . . another man.”

  “You mean another man than Nick?”

  “Yes. That is exactly what I mean.”

  “Georgie, you only left the Point yesterday. What could have happened?”

  “A lot. I feel attracted to someone else.”

  “You do? Hold on.” I heard her telling Eugene to put water in the birdbath. She came back on the line. “Describe the feeling.”

  I had to close my eyes to get it right. “It’s like, I’m wishing he would kiss me. I can just about feel his lips on mine. I think I’ll die if he doesn’t.”

  “Georgie, he’s not right there, is he?” Clare asked in a low tone.

  I opened my eyes to make sure. “No. But the feeling is very strong. His name is Mark Constable—he’s the photographer who took my pictures.” I described the photo session to her, and when I was finished, she laughed.

  “What?” I asked, offended that she wasn’t taking me seriously enough.

  “It sounds like you had a fabulous time together, and you’re just feeling a little carried away. Don’t take this wrong, but you lead a very isolated life, and you’re confusing ordinary, everyday fun with desire. Get your hormones under control.” She laughed some more.

  “Ha, ha. How do you know?”

  “Trust me.”

  I remembered standing on the balcony with Mark, the sun setting across the park. I recalled the look in his eyes. “I think he felt something too.”

  “Probably he did. Why not?”

  “Listen, how do you know so much about it? You live on the Point too. You’re just as isolated as I am. As a matter of fact, more so. The Observatory brings me into contact with a lot of people.”

  “Your isolation is a state of mind. You think you and Nick, and the rest of the family to a lesser extent, are in the castle keep, surrounded by a moat. You don’t want to let anyone in or out.”

  “Thank you, Hans Christian Andersen, or should I say Dr. Freud?” I said, angry at her analysis, even though it sounded reasonable.

  “Anyway, Nick is now the Evil Wizard, tooting off to London, and your photographer is the new Prince.”

  “That’s not true. You’re exaggerating. I love Nick. I just feel like kissing Mark.”

  Clare snorted. “Imagine what you’d say if Nick said he just felt like kissing that female lawyer you hate so much. You know, you’re proving a theory I was developing about you. You’re so obsessed with the fear that Nick might commit adultery, you’re going to get drawn into it yourself.”

  “I am not. Shut up. What business do you have developing theories about me, all on your own, without letting me in on them?”

  “That makes no sense. Maybe you really are lovestruck—you sound irrational. I’m sorry if you think I’m making fun of you. I’m really not,” she said, sounding incredibly amused. “I just love you so much, and I’ve hated to see you hurt over Nick. I think this is healthy for you. Maybe it’s your way of changing a little, being a little more flexible about your marriage. Remember, wishes don’t always come true. Just because you wish Mark had kissed you doesn’t mean he did. Right?”

  “Right. You know? I just looked at the time, and it’s seven-thirty. Do you realize that Nick took Jean to the theater in London, and I haven’t thought of them once? It must be after midnight there.”

  “Good
going, sweetpea!” Clare said affectionately.

  “Thanks, Clare.”

  “You’re welcome. Oh—here comes Donald’s plane. They all finished work early, and we’re having a cookout tonight. I see it now, coming down. I’d better go.”

  “Safe landing,” we said simultaneously, then hung up.

  To celebrate my new flexibility and because I was feeling high from Clare’s congratulations, I decided to call Nick. I asked the Savoy operator to try his room. The phone rang and rang, and there was no answer. I said maybe she had made a mistake and asked her to try again. No answer. I hung up, then stood by the window. The sun was down; a strip of rose gleamed in the west. They had gone to the theater and decided to have dinner afterwards. But surely dinner would be over by now? They had decided to go to a nightclub. They had decided to go to Jean’s room because they knew I would find them in Nick’s. At that moment they were holding each other, naked, in Jean’s bed.

  “Stop it, stop it,” I said out loud.

  Be sensible. Maybe the client called and they had to forgo the theater and work after all. No, Nick had been ready to leave when we spoke earlier. The only way the client could have found him was to have him paged at the theater. Highly unlikely. An accident! I thought, losing my breath. Dear God, he’s lying in a London hospital, unconscious, near death, and no one knows who he is because some street urchins stole his U.S. passport for an easy sale on the black market.

  I was shivering and had been for heaven knows how long when the phone rang.

  It was Mark, calling from the lobby. He asked if I had changed my mind about dinner. I said sure, come on up, we’ll order from room service. By the time he knocked on my door I had stripped naked, and I greeted him with an open-mouthed kiss. We didn’t even make it to the bed, but fell to the floor and made wild and passionate love on the carpet.

  It was Nick calling from the airport. Guess what? he asked. I decided to surprise you and fly back early, quit my job, open a little landscape-gardening concern in Black Hall. Meanwhile I’ll take a cab to your hotel, undressing you in my mind the entire way. Order up some oysters from room service, baby—I’ll be there soon.

  All that happened, and the phone was still ringing. I answered it on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Georgie?” came Nick’s voice, fuzzy in its transatlantic state.

  “Where in God’s name have you been?” I shrieked. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve been at the office. Everything broke tonight—they called my room just as I was leaving for the theater. We never did see the play.”

  “I was calling in the middle of the night your time, and I didn’t get an answer, and I’ve been so worried!”

  “I know. I have your message.”

  “You should have called me, to let me know you were going to be out all night,” I said. I didn’t even have the strength to censor the torrent. “The things I imagined were horrible.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I wanted to call you, because I had the feeling you’d call again like last night, but I’d left the number for your hotel at my hotel.”

  “Whew,” I said, considerably calmer, suddenly struck with disappointment that he wasn’t calling from Kennedy to say he was on the way. “I feel better now. I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “I’d better get some shut-eye. I’m really tired, and meetings start early in the morning.”

  “Sweet dreams, Nick.”

  “Sweet dreams, Georgie.”

  I snuggled into my nightgown, warm with the memory of Nick’s voice. Room service had just delivered my lamb chops when the phone rang again. It was Mark.

  “Sorry to call you so late,” he said.

  “That’s okay.”

  “I just got the contact sheets of your pictures. They’re really pretty.”

  “They are? Thanks,” I said, flushing at the compliment.

  “I thought maybe you’d like to see them. Would you like to have lunch tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” I said, without a moment’s hesitation.

  The next morning I read the Times story about the Swift Observatory. In print, my endeavor sounded serious and admirable, larger than life, or at least larger than my life. Had I really covered such diverse subjects as “love that leads to violence,” “the devastation caused in families who lose a child to the greater security of religious cults,” “the funny poignance of elderly twins reunited after a lifetime of not knowing of each other’s existence”? The reporter had included my philosophy on families, and John Avery was quoted saying, “Miss Swift is a visionary.” I glowed with pleasure; I could hardly wait to get home and hear Clare’s and Honora’s reactions. I planned to take a late train that afternoon. Calculating the time difference, I decided Nick would be impossible to reach until later. Meanwhile, I was glad I had arranged a celebratory lunch. It just happened to be with Mark.

  We met at Boccador, an East Side restaurant with tall windows that admitted plenty of light and overlooked a private garden. I wore white jersey pants that ended above my ankle, a beige jersey tunic with gold buttons, and the Poppy Field lipstick. My white leather purse was trimmed with beige and shaped like a saddlebag; Nick had bought it for me on our last visit to Paris.

  Mark waited for me in a banquette facing the garden. He rose as I approached, but the headwaiter standing by the table and the table’s awkward position prevented us from kissing hello. We shook hands instead. I sat beside him. My heart seemed to be beating fast; I tried to forget my fantasies of the night before by concentrating on the table settings. White linen tablecloth, matching napkins, white plates rimmed with blue and gold, heavy cutlery.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “I saw that piece in the paper.”

  “I was really happy with it,” I said, incapable of sounding blasé.

  “I told you we needed dynamic pictures for a story about the Swift Observatory.”

  “This is a lovely restaurant,” I said.

  “Do you like it? I come here a lot.” He looked around the room, perhaps trying to see it the way someone would for the first time.

  “We hardly ever go out to dinner in Black Hall,” I said, wanting to remind him that I was married. “Although there are lots of good restaurants.”

  The waiter came to our table and Mark ordered two glasses of champagne. “To celebrate your Observatory,” he said, grinning; at that instant I felt a pang, because I was celebrating with Mark, not Nick.

  “Would you like to see the pictures?” he asked, then removed two contact sheets from the briefcase beside him. Many tiny pictures of me covered each page, in the sequence he had taken them; they reminded me of a filmstrip. There I was in the middle of the street: looking left, looking right, pulling in my cheeks to make my cheekbones look halfway like a model’s, my black hair tossed about, smiling, not smiling, stock-still in terror at the close call with that tour bus. I smiled, remembering the fun we had had. Clare had been right: we were just two normal people having a good time.

  Then I saw the pictures on the balcony. One glance made the blood rise to my cheeks. I instantly recognized which photo Mark had taken after touching my hair. My yearning was so obvious, captured on film for all, especially Mark, to see. Lowering my head, I felt ashamed. I gazed down so he wouldn’t notice my red cheeks.

  “These are fine,” I said, erasing the emotion from my voice.

  “You sound disappointed,” he said, sounding disappointed.

  “No, really. They’re wonderful.” I looked up then, smiled at him. He was leaning forward, frowning with concern. “I was just remembering how it felt, standing in the middle of Central Park South, risking life and limb. Do you do that sort of thing often?”

  “No, hardly ever. But the feeling hit me when we were halfway across: take her picture. They’re good, aren’t they?” he asked, examining the contact sheet. I stiffened when I saw him pause at the balcony sequence. He looked at those for a long time, then tapped the paper with one finger. “These ar
e pretty,” he said. “If I were the photo editor, I’d have a hard time deciding whether to go with the drama in the street, or use one of these.”

  “The street ones are better,” I said, relieved when the waiter gave me a menu to study.

  We both had sole meunière. Mark told me stories about his life overseas, the constant awareness of his own mortality, the way he began acting careless—crossing the street, getting too close to gunfire, straying into forbidden districts. Then we talked about our families. I told him about Nick, about Honora and Pem, about my wonderful sister and her family. He showed me another contact sheet in his briefcase, with pictures of a family party: his mother and father standing knee-deep in the surf; his older brother, surprisingly dark and bearded; his grandfather, home from the nursing home for the day.

  “Oh, it must be sad, to have him living in a place like that,” I said.

  “He likes it. They have busy schedules every day—bingo, card tournaments, prayer services, discussion groups, movies.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “That sounds like camp for grown-ups—basket weaving and bead stringing. Things to keep them occupied. I guess we’re lucky my grandmother doesn’t have to go into one.”

  “You are, but they’re not all bad. My grandfather plays banjo, and there’s a Dixieland band at his place. He really enjoys it.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, not believing him.

  Mark called for the check, and I looked at my watch.

  “Well, I have a train to catch,” I said. “I have to get my things from the hotel, check out. . . .” I smiled at him. The lunch had been fun, not half as guilt-provoking as I had feared it would be. What was so bad about having a meal with a member of the opposite sex? Suddenly I felt benevolent about the idea of Nick dining with Jean. I hoped their conversations were as pleasant, as stimulating, as Mark’s and mine had been.

  Waiters bustled to our table as we stood to rise. I hid a smile, watching Mark hand a folded bill to the maître d’.

  “You have to do that when you’re a regular,” he said, seeing that I had noticed. It seemed endearing and intimate, the sort of thing a husband would say to a wife. Mark held the door for me. Pedestrian traffic had thinned, and I realized that we had spent a long time at the table, that the lunch hour was long over.