“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Casper Milquetoast!” she said. “Forty-six years old, and you’re still afraid of embarrassing scenes. Well, I’m not. In fact, I’m rather looking forward to it.”
She was playing with him now, just to see how he’d respond. She was not disappointed.
What do you have in mind? What are you planning?”
“Oh, nothing,” she sang, applying eyeliner to her already painted lids. She dropped the pencil and picked up the mascara. “After all, Valerie isn’t aware that I know anything about the two of you.”
A horrible thought occurred to her then. She whirled around to face him.
“Is she, Robert?” she demanded.
“No. I didn’t tell her.”
She turned back to the mirror.
“Well, then,” she said, “I shall appear to be as I have always been. She’s my best friend, after all. I shall be perfectly charming to her and that grotesque she calls a husband.”
Oops, she thought, I’ve gone too far. Now he’s angry. She cringed slightly, waiting to see if he would actually jump up from the bed and come over to confront her.
He didn’t. “You leave Frank out of this. He has nothing to do with it.”
She relaxed and raised a penciled brow.
“He has nothing to do with her, apparently,” she observed. “That must be why she finds it necessary to seduce other people’s husbands.”
She inspected the staggering array of perfume bottles and atomizers spread out before her, wondering for the thousandth time why it was that men caught in this classic, disgusting situation never felt compelled to defend themselves or their paramours, but always stood by their male friends. Even—and this was the most bizarre aberration of men—when the male friend in question was the very one they were cuckolding. What is it about them, she asked herself, that makes them place such ridiculous emphasis on each other’s virtues? Bonding, she supposed: that exclusive club to which every male on earth automatically belongs, of which every female on earth knows so little. Shrugging her shoulders in superior exasperation, she selected tonight’s scent, Norell, and dabbed it behind her ears and on her wrists.
Of course, he would have a comment about that. “You just did that a little while ago. This place reeks of the stuff! Why are you putting on more perfume?”
She did not deign to answer. Women, she mused, have an exclusive club, too. Ha!
She heard a long, low hiss from the room behind her. For a moment she thought it might be Robert’s editorial comment on the subject of women’s rituals. Then she heard the faint clanking and realized with satisfaction that it was only the radiator in the corner. The heat was on: good. The weather reports had predicted snow.
Smiling her most languorous, most irritating smile, she stood up and went over to the walk-in closet. She reached up to the top shelf and selected the right purse to go with her sequined dress. Then she dug swiftly into the bag, just to make sure. Yes, the little pearl-handled revolver was there. She checked the chamber: two bullets left. That would be sufficient. Snapping the bag shut, she stepped out into the room.
Her husband had not moved.
“Oh, do get up, Robert!” she cried. Walking over to the chair in the corner, she scooped up his clothes and threw them at him. “I promise, no scenes.”
He is so stupid, she thought. He always believes what I say. There’ll be a scene, all right. Oh, boy, will there be a scene! I can’t wait to see Valerie’s face when she sees the gun. That will wipe away her self-satisfied smirk! That Valerie. Ever since we were girls, she’s had this neurotic need to best me, to win at whatever game it is she’s playing. A bigger debut, a bigger wedding, a richer husband. And now this. My husband. God, if it weren’t so tacky, it would be funny...
She took a long, deep breath, steadying herself. When she spoke again, she was once more in complete control. “You have exactly five minutes in which to get dressed. We are then leaving. I called the car service, and our usual driver, Nicholas, will be waiting outside. We will arrive at Valerie’s at seven, in time for cocktails. We will be perfectly dressed and perfectly mannered. Valerie will not suspect that anything is wrong. Do you understand?”
Without waiting for a reply, she walked into the marbled bathroom and shut the door. Turning on both faucets to cover her sounds, she reached into the medicine cabinet and selected a little bottle of pills. She’d already taken two in the last three hours. Oh, well, where was the harm? She placed two more in her mouth and washed them down. She gazed at her immaculate reflection in the bathroom mirror as the warm surge of beautiful energy flooded through her.
It had been three hours since he told her.
He hadn’t beaten about the bush, either. He’d simply told her, without preamble and without apology. Of course, there had been other women in the past, years ago, and she’d known about them. Brief, unimportant flings with a client and one of his secretaries and some actress or other. Nothing really threatening. She had looked the other way, accepted the humiliation in acquiescent silence.
Then, three hours ago, he’d come home early from his brokerage firm, fixed himself a drink, taken a quick shower and returned to the bedroom, at which time he’d simply announced to her that he and Valerie were in love. That they’d been carrying on in secret for the better part of four years. That he wanted a divorce...
At first she’d merely stared at him, incredulous, trying to take it in. Then she’d burst into laughter. After that brief fit of hysteria, she’d—well, she couldn’t remember it all now, but she’d taken charge of the situation in a remarkably short period of time. Then, as ever, she’d immediately begun planning her defense strategy.
It was amazing, really, how capable she could be when the chips were down. She’d always been dependent on others for her safety, for her happiness; first her mother and father, then Robert. Always rich, always indulged and protected. She’d never in her life been alone, and she’d often wondered what she would do, how she would behave, if she were ever faced with the prospect of loneliness.
She’d staved it off thus far in the only way she knew: she had been a perfect wife. She had made this house their home, fed him and tended to his needs, entertained countless clients and associates. Parties, weekends, committees, charity functions. Always beautiful, always dutiful, always available to him.
She’d borne him a son, but the baby had not survived. It was the only real blot on the otherwise pristine landscape of their marriage. That ordeal had brought the two of them closer together, or so she’d believed. He’d stayed by her in the hospital and all through the long months in the clinic afterward, whispering soothing encouragements. It had been his finest hour, as far as she was concerned. Now, all these years later, she still felt the gratitude. It wasn’t until after that, after she was finally home and everyone was saying how much better she looked, that the business with the other women had begun.
They’d seen it all, she supposed, the two of them. They’d been through happiness and tragedy and success and all the rest of it. Twenty years. Twenty years, and never once the threat of being on her own.
Until now.
The bathroom mirror reflected her grim determination. Desperate times, she thought: desperate measures. The little gun she’d bought two years ago. Ironic, she thought now. She’d bought the gun after Valerie had been mugged, in case of robbers or rapists on the mean city streets or here in her home. If it hadn’t been for Valerie, she wouldn’t even own the damn thing!
Valerie. Her closest, oldest, most trusted friend. Her only friend, really. She’d known Valerie for most of her life, ever since that first day of junior high school. The two of them had gossiped and dreamed and plotted the courses of their lives. My God, she realized now, the ironies! It was I, so happy in my own marriage, who had introduced Valerie to Frank! I have always loved her, always been there for her.
And now...
The scenario was clear in her mind. She would walk into Valerie’s house a
nd smile and kiss her cheek. Then she would calmly pull the gun from her purse. Aim it at Valerie, right there in front of everybody. Then, when her erstwhile best friend screamed or laughed or whatever, she’d—
She’d what? Pull the trigger? Shoot Valerie? Kill her?
She shut her eyes tightly, trying to imagine the moment. Valerie, eyes wide with shock, with the sudden, surprising pain, sinking slowly to the floor, her pale hand reaching up toward the little spot of blood on her breast. Frank, his bored, patrician features for once animated, his slack, girlish lips moving in speechless disbelief. The Hansons, the ugly congressman and his uglier wife—they were going to be there, weren’t they? Probably: Frank and Valerie were always sucking up to people they imagined to be powerful.
Mrs. Hanson would faint, of course. And then there would be the awful, unnatural silence, as they took the gun from her hand and she sank into a chair. She would stare down at the intricate blue and red pattern of Valerie’s Oriental carpet, not daring to look up to meet everyone’s anguished, accusing gaze. Then rough hands would lift her up, and there would be cold steel on her wrists, and a long ride in the backseat of an unfamiliar car. Someone—a woman, presumably—would lead her down a long white corridor to a barred, impersonal room, to sit again for hours on a cold, hard bench in her sequins and fur, surrounded by such women as she had only seen in films and on television. And all the while Robert would be—
Would be where? What would he be doing? What would he be thinking? She couldn’t form a clear picture of that in her mind because...because...
Because it wasn’t going to happen.
At that moment, as she stood there in the bathroom, she was possessed of a sudden inspiration. The obvious solution to her dilemma took her completely by surprise. Her lacquered nails gripped the cool porcelain edge of the sink to keep her from losing her balance, so great was her relief.
Robert can stop me, she thought.
He can, if he wants to. If he loves me. I’ll take out the gun and aim it at Valerie, but I won’t fire. Not yet. I’ll give him the option. If he reaches out and takes the gun away from me, that will be the end of it. I’ll scream and cry and be hysterical, and he’ll never do this again. Not ever. He’ll realize how much I love him.
And I do love him, she thought. Even now, after this. Oh, God, I love him so much...
The faint, faraway sound reached her through the jumble of her thoughts. She paused, inclining her head toward the connecting door. It was difficult to make out the sound over the rushing of the water in the sink. At first she didn’t recognize what it was: it had been so long. Then, when she placed it, a warm, breathless tingle of hope suffused her.
Well, for heaven’s sake, she thought. He’s whistling! He hasn’t done that since—what is that tune? Of course: “Dancing in the Dark.” Our song. They played it at our wedding—
In her mind’s eye, she saw him getting up from the bed and slowly, perhaps reluctantly, stepping into his clothes. Shorts, trousers, shirt. Fumbling with studs and cufflinks. Inhaling deeply for the cummerbund. Moving to the mirror to knot the tie. Running his long, gentle fingers through his full, wavy brown hair. Finally, a splash of Grey Flannel from the bottle he would find among her bottles on the vanity table. She had always loved watching him get dressed.
Damn Valerie! Damn that woman to hell!
The tears in her eyes surprised her. She stared in horror at her face in the mirror. Oh, no, she thought. I mustn’t lose it now. I have to be completely in control. I will go through with this, and I will look sensational doing it. Otherwise, the gesture is meaningless. I’m not going to lose him—not to her, at any rate. I’ll kill her first. I’ll kill him first!
She froze. Now why would such a thought occur to me, she wondered, at this of all times? What a horrible thing to be thinking about. Valerie, yes: I can aim a gun at her, even fire it. But him? Robert? My husband! I’ve got to pull myself together...
She reached for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Thank God for waterproof makeup, she thought. She placed the pill bottle in her bag and turned off the faucets. Then she took another deep breath and smiled.
Everything’s going to be all right, she told herself. He’ll be there. He’ll stop me. But if he doesn’t stop me, I’ll kill her. I swear to God I will.
She listened. The whistling had stopped now. She lifted her chin, picked up her bag, and walked out into the bedroom.
“You’re ready at last,” she said, smiling. “Good. Fix your tie, Robert, you look like the hired help. There. Now, which coat should I wear? The mink or the chinchilla?”
“What does it matter? You’ll look gorgeous in either of them.”
That pleased her. “Do you really think so? What a lovely thing to say. You can be a darling. When you’re not being a bastard, that is. The chinchilla, I think. White fur and silver sequins. Yes...
She entered the closet and took the coat from its hanger. The warm, soft fur enveloped her, caressing her naked arms, giving her strength. She could do this now. She was dressed for it. She found Robert’s warmest coat and rummaged on the lower shelf for his scarf and gloves.
“You’d better wear these tonight,” she told him, dropping them on the chair next to the bed. “It’s freezing outside. I don’t want you catching a cold.”
She allowed him time to put on the coat, returning to the vanity table for one more dab of Norell, one more quick check in the glass. Yes, she thought, perfect. Then she switched off the bedroom light and headed for the stairs.
Of course,” she said over her shoulder as she descended, “I could shoot Valerie with the gun in my purse.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t got a gun.”
She laughed. “Of course not, darling. But I might just make a scene.”
You said you wouldn’t.” She noted the warning tone.
“I’m a woman, darling,” she replied. “We’re allowed to change our minds.”
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned and went into the living room. She crossed to the bar, selected two tiny crystal glasses, and filled them with his favorite sherry.
“Before we go,” she said, “a toast. Do you realize that next month is our twentieth anniversary?”
“Of course.”
Well, think about it,” she drawled, and raised her glass. “Happier days, Robert.”
“Yes. Happier days.”
She drained her glass, licked her lips, and looked out through the big, velvet-curtained front windows. It was already dark outside, dark and cold. In the light from the street lamp in front of their townhouse, the first white flakes drifted softly down onto the bare black branches of the trees in the little park directly across the street.
“‘The birds have eaten the breadcrumbs,’” she whispered, remembering the fairy tale her mother had always read to her when she was little. “‘We are lost in this wood.’”
With a rueful smile, she placed the two glasses on the coffee table for the housekeeper to find in the morning.
“Neat, as always.” His wry tone was unmistakable.
“Yes,” she said lightly, ignoring the tone. “I’m a good wife. I really am. I’m more than you deserve.”
“You try anything tonight and I’ll stop you.”
She stared. “Will you? Will you really?” She said it as softly, as hopefully, as she could. This was no time for him to suspect sarcasm.
“Yes, I will. I won’t let you hurt Valerie, and I won’t let you disgrace yourself.”
She pulled on her kid gloves, picked up her heavy bag, and swept out of the room. Crossing the foyer, she hammered the last nail into place. “I won’t disgrace myself, but I might hurt Valerie.”
“You will not. I’ll stop you.”
She threw open the front door and turned.
“One of us will have the upper hand,” she said. “But only one of us.”
Then she smiled. It’s going to be all right, she thought. I know it is. I won’t have to go through wit
h it. I won’t have to shoot Valerie. I can see it in his eyes, I could hear it in his whistling. When I feel his hand on mine, lowering the gun, I won’t fire. He’ll stop me. He will he will he will...
She turned and looked down into the street.
“We’re in luck, darling,” she cried, ignoring the fresh tears that formed in the corners of her eyes and seemed to crystallize immediately in the brisk winter air. “There’s the car. We’ll be right on time. Now, smile and take my arm. That’s right. We’re the beautiful people, Robert. The perfect couple. Come, my cavalier, escort me to our carriage.”
The back door of the limousine stood open, and the chauffeur waited beside it, smiling at her as she arrived at the bottom of the steps.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, reaching out to take her extended arm and help her into the car. His gaze moved past her, up to the doorway of the house behind her, then back. “Won’t your husband be joining us this evening?”
She stared at the driver as the frigid wind blew snowflakes in her hot, flushed face, shocking her senses.
“My—my husband?” she whispered. She turned to look at the empty space beside her. “Robert...?”
It all came rushing back to her at that moment, and she swayed and nearly fell. The voice. Bang! The whistling. Bang! The dinner jacket laid out with such care, then tossed so carelessly at her husband on the bed. Bang! His winter coat, scarf, and gloves. Bang! Two sherry glasses on the coffee table, only one of them empty. The pearl-handled revolver, four shots fired, two bullets left...
“Robert,” she whispered again.
The driver was holding her elbow firmly now, squeezing it. “My name is Nicholas, ma’am. Are you all right?”
Then she drew herself up. She turned to the young man and smiled, the gracious smile born of a gracious life.
“I’m quite all right, Nicholas,” she said, eyes clear, voice steady, “but my husband is not with me. He’s—lying down. There’s just one of us tonight.”
He nodded and handed her into the limousine, and the door beside her slammed shut with a loud, final resonance. Nicholas got in front, and the car glided smoothly forward.
Blood on Their Hands Page 7