Charles stands by the bar in the living room mixing himself a Scotch and water and looking out at the autumn glory of Central Park. There’s something about the girl, Emma, that intrigues him. Those eyes. The nervous habit she has of rubbing her thumbnails with her fingertips. He finds her touching. It’ll be nice having her around for a while.
The front door opens and Anne glides in, breathless, wearing a green suit with navy trim. She goes to Charles and gives him a kiss, avoids looking him in the eye.
“Welcome home, stranger,” she says.
“It’s good to be back.”
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Of course not. Drink?”
“Yes, please-ginger ale.”
“You look terrific,” he says. She doesn’t really; she looks tense and there are dark circles under her eyes.
“I got a trim today. A first: Marcus came into the office to do it. I felt so decadent, like Nancy Reagan. Or Madonna.” She slips off her shoes and tucks her feet under her as she sinks down on one of the two enormous white sofas that face each other in front of the fireplace. “Next I’ll be putting in a little private gym, or maybe a whole mini-spa, with one of those tiny pools that churn a current against you.”
Anne’s got the charm machine cranked up to overdrive-one of her diversionary tactics. She still hasn’t looked him in the eye. No doubt she’s angry at him for leaving in the middle of the night, angry and also waiting for him to mention the girl, Emma, to thank her for hiring her. There’s a silence as each waits for the other to make the next move. Charles yields.
“Thank you for hiring that secretary. I think you’re right, it will be easier with things sorted out in there.”
“You’re welcome,” Anne says simply, smart enough not to milk her small triumph. “She’s really quite bright and efficient.”
“She seems to be.”
“She certainly didn’t get where she is on her charm. Although she does have a certain wounded-fawn je ne sais quoi. In any case, I’m glad you think she’ll work out.”
“I do. She’s unobtrusive.”
“I must say though, Charles, I wish you’d woken me. I worry when you disappear like that.”
His work is one issue that isn’t open to compromise. “I had to go. I went.”
“And how’s the great lady?” Portia brings out Anne’s insecurity. She’s convinced his mentor dismisses her as shallow and unworthy, feels Charles would have been better off marrying some bookish trust-fund baby who lived only to nurture his fiery muse, who would create a cozy cocoon in some posh Vermont hollow, complete with a rustic studio out back and two apple-cheeked children.
Charles sits on the arm of the opposite sofa and runs a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “She’s herself.”
“And did she give you what you needed?”
Charles resents that question, as if something as complex and painful and important as his work can be reduced to a yes or no. He crosses to the window. The October dark has arrived and the lights have come on in Central Park. The cars zipping through the park look like mad Tinkertoys. Finally he turns and looks at Anne. There’s genuine concern in her face. “It was a good trip.”
“I’m glad, darling. Phoebe adored Capitol Offense, was up all night reading it, now everyone in the office is clamoring for a copy. I said, ‘Absolutely not-go out and buy it.’ ”
Charles sits next to her on the sofa. She reaches out and strokes his cheek. He takes her hand and kisses it. “Next time I go I’ll leave a note.”
“Make it a love note.”
He places her hand on his thigh and runs his fingertips between her fingers. He’s been boorish and self-obsessed lately-it’s time to give Anne something she wants.
“Anne?”
“Yes?”
“About a baby? There’ll always be a thousand reasons to wait.”
She turns away abruptly, withdrawing her hand. She really does look exhausted.
“I didn’t get a great deal of sleep last night. Can we discuss this some other time? Right now I need a nap. You know we have to be at Lincoln Center at eight.”
“I’m not going.” She freezes. “I’m sorry, Anne, I’ve made a decision to cut back on my socializing. It’s for my work.”
“Nice of you to tell me.”
“I really have to focus. It’s important.”
“I understand that, darling, but I think I have a right to be informed of these decisions, maybe even consulted. This is for the Fresh Air Fund, Charles, they do important work. And the tickets were five hundred dollars.”
Low blow. “If you can’t afford them you shouldn’t have bought them.”
Anne concedes the point with an almost imperceptible nod. She finishes her drink with a long swallow. “Am I supposed to just cancel our entire calendar, or should I find myself a walker? Too bad Jerry Zipkin is dead.”
“There’s that artist-what’s his name? You love his company.”
“I can’t believe this. You’re my husband, Charles.”
“I also happen to be a novelist.”
“Are the two mutually exclusive?”
“They may be for a little while.”
Anne stands up. Something hardens in her face, around the mouth. “Keep me posted,” she says, and walks out of the room.
Charles watches her go. The apartment feels polluted by their exchange. Why the hell did she bring up a piddling five hundred dollars like that, with the money she makes? She has every right to be angry about his backing out of the benefit, but it won’t last. She’ll go by herself, make some excuse for his absence, and have a terrific time. Anne’s a big girl, and she’ll soon see that he’s doing this for both of them. If he can come up with fifty really strong pages, Nina will snare a serious advance and everyone will breathe easier. But fifty pages of what? Does Portia think that some idea is just going to crash through the window and- pow! — he’ll have another great book? She sure as hell doesn’t have much respect for his process. That’s unfair. She’s part of his process. At least she used to be.
Charles grabs the bottle of Scotch off the liquor tray and heads for his office.