It was early Spring . . . time to write ads of “Easter Apparel and
Accessories” . . . to get out extra fashion pages, after last-minute
buyers’ conferences. Rush the art work; rush the cuts; rush copy to the
typographer; tell him to rush proofs. The fashion copy-writer left. Then
I was fashion copy-writer. The assistant advertising manager was
ill—they let me do her work. I was glad. It made the days go fast.
“Get a lizard bag up, an import, to be sketched with those lizard shoes,
Miss Thomas,” I said. “Miss Hastings’s on her way down; she’s going to
do all the art work in the two accessory columns. Hosiery, gloves, the
shoes-and-bag in one, handkerchief, jewelry item, there’s one more
space. Tell Mr. Johnson the flower and the perfume buyers both wanted to
go in the page—and ask him to decide. _I_ don’t want the one who’s left
out, discussing why with me. . . . No, we can group the boutonnière and
perfume bottle, and use ’em both. They’ll balance the shoes-and-handbag.
Hastings’s good at handling that sort of thing.”
A jargon—a jargon I had learned quickly. It paid for the rent and taxis
to the office and for clothes—more clothes than I had had since I was
married. I had a new Spring ensemble in blue—the dress a Ducharne
print, the coat a good copy of one of Vionnet’s—“with the intricate
simplicity of the original about it”—$89.50 wholesale. The buyer took
me over to the manufacturer; I admired his whole line, politely; I
talked about advertising; I got his copy to write for Women’s Wear; $25
a week extra. Not bad. I got a millinery account the same way, that paid
$15. The office paid me $65, since I was fashion copy-writer. I bought
two pairs of shoes at once nowadays, and purses to match them, and said
it was economy. They stayed looking well longer.
I had plenty of washable suède gloves, that Nora kept beautifully fresh.
Silly gay jewelry, to wear a month and throw away. But it must carry out
the ensemble idea, meanwhile. A black silk coat, that was not just _a_
black silk coat. A black and white Patou frock. Hats and hats and
hats—because I loved hats. (The forlorn days when I lived with Peter
and hunted about, toward the season’s end, for _one_ hat for five
dollars in a sale.) Lovely expensive powders, and lipsticks and
perfumes. (Peter bought me a bottle of Houbigant’s _Idéal_ once. That is
not very expensive, but he must have gone without lunches three days to
get it.)
It was seven weeks since Peter left; five weeks since I began to live
with Lucia. There was no time, or not very much, to think about
Peter—waking, doing calisthenics, having orange juice and toast and
coffee in a drug store, taking a cab to the office. No time to think of
Peter, from nine to one, or from two-thirty to five-thirty. No time
after, walking home fast, two miles in forty minutes, bathing, dressing,
going places.
Men told Lucia I was lovely looking, but completely cold. Why cold? I
let them kiss me when they must, in cabs, dancing in hot night-clubs, at
parties. They were not real. Neither was the office.
Clothes were real. I bought many clothes so that, when Peter called up,
I could say “come over instantly” and I would be marvellously dressed. I
dressed carefully, always, because I might meet some friend of Peter’s,
who would go back to him and say, “I saw Patricia; she was looking
beautiful.” Then he would call up sooner.
The telephone was real. Some day, or perhaps some night, late, it would
ring significantly. That would be Peter. He would begin by saying
“Patty, it was all—the last months—all a crazy mistake; I’m coming
back.”
And I would say, “I’m glad.”
I would tell Peter about first nights, and the funny tabloid columnist
who came in and wrote his stuff on my typewriter when I wanted to go to
bed, until Lucia came and took me downstairs to sleep. The columnist
looked so disappointed.
I would tell Peter about my arrangement with Lucia, to turn up at
Childs’ at three in the morning when I was out without her; so that I
could meet her, supposedly accidentally, and go home with her. The
arrangement was made because Lucia said I was not awake enough, yet, to
be able to handle anyone. That would amuse him—tell him that I went
sleep-walking about, all through the weeks he had gone.
Meanwhile, the days hurried, and the evenings hurried; and, when I went
to bed in the daybed that could be adjusted for two people (what had
Lucia meant by that, Lucia had no lover), I slept, usually.
Sometimes, when I woke in the night, I began to ache for the feeling of
Peter’s head against my shoulder . . . and thought “if I could run my
hand through Peter’s silky tumbled hair—softly, not to wake him . . .”
Then I went downstairs and slept on the little couch in Lucia’s
apartment. When she woke, she just said, “Hello darling. I have _such_ a
hangover.”
And I said, “You ought to do calisthenics at night, Lucia. They’re
wonderful for hangovers.”
“Oh, don’t be such a tiresome athletic lamb. Makes me weary to think of
calisthenics. Is it eight o’clock yet?”
* * * * *
One evening when I worked until half-past six, I cabbed home, because
Lucia and I had a foursome dinner engagement at seven, and I had to be
dressed in fifteen minutes.
But Lucia was not in. I looked for a note on the telephone pad, where we
always left messages for each other. It said: “Your husband telephoned
at six. I told him to call again at seven. Took our two men off. Good
luck.
“P.S. Keep your head, darling.
“P.P.S. I’ll be home around midnight, if you want to come down.”
* * * * *
It was twelve minutes of seven. I dropped hat and gloves and purse and
packages (two pairs of chiffon stockings in a shade called “ecstasy” and
a net bandeau from Paris) all on the stairs, and sat down beside them.
My knees shook, so that they kept hitting against each other, and that
amused me inordinately. I got a cigarette and matches from my purse, and
smoked and let my hopes run.
(He is coming back; it is all over with Hilda, and he just could not
stand Judith; he is coming back. What shall I do with this apartment? I
wonder if Pete would live on Brooklyn Heights or somewhere economical so
we could save money and have another baby in a couple of years. I always
knew if I did not believe it was all over, it would not be. Must be
tactful and not too curious about whatever he has been doing. He has
just been having an excursion, and Lucia says they come back better for
the outing. I must remember that. Should I tell him about the doctor?
No, absolutely no. I was sort of crazy; else that would not have
happened.)
The telephone rang.
“Peter darling!”
“Oh, is that you, Pat? I wondered if you were free for dinner; we might
discuss our divorce.”
I could not answer for a minute. (But how stupid of me. He would not
admit, instantly, that he wanted me back—it would make him seem so
inconsistent. Men mind that.)
“Yes, I’m free for dinner, Pete, if you’ll give me three quarters of an
hour to get ready. I’m just home, and I have to bathe and things . . .”
“All right. That will be quarter to eight. Shall I call for you or will
you meet me? I thought we might dine at the Blue Star.”
(Oh, pleasant French speakeasy where we used to dine to celebrate
things, occasionally, when we were in funds. That was a good sign, that
he wanted to eat there. Better meet him there, he could have a cocktail
while he waited. Then he would be sure to feel good-tempered.)
“Suppose I meet you there, Pete, at eight.”
“’Right. See you in an hour. Good-bye.”
What to wear, the blue ensemble or Patou frock and black coat? I rushed
upstairs, started my bath running, took out a crisp pale rose French
chemise, that was all beautifully tucked and pleated. Pete loved
underthings in pretty colours, and hated lacy stuff.
Then the implications of that—my sureness that he would admire the
chemise—made me so breathless that I had to sit down for an instant and
have some of another cigarette.
The Patou frock, certainly—it was much more striking—made me look
ineffably slim yet sufficiently curved. I bathed and dressed hastily,
but efficiently. The great problem was how much rouge? I had so much
colour of my own at the moment—but if it faded later I did not want to
look wan and forlorn. Better risk a little too much, the lights in the
Blue Star were dim, and with a black dress and hat I could stand it.
The dress slipped on. Black marocain with a deep white collar and
exaggerated cuffs, cut petalwise. Black satin opera pumps . . . I did
not like satin shoes much, but these made my feet look so narrow. An
almost brimless black milan hat, with a gold arrow embroidered athwart
the front. Pearls—no, the flat gold necklace.
Hunting for the necklace, I found an old ring, a flawed emerald in a
curious Italian setting. Pete bought that for me in London, in an
antique shop on Oxford Street. I put it on as a good gesture.
Lucia had some Nuit de Noel perfume. Pete liked that. I went downstairs
for it. In Lucia’s bath, regarding myself in her long mirror, glowing, I
was grateful for my looks. They had been useful to me with Pete, and not
so long ago. Lucia had written something about “keep my head.” I never
could with Pete. Never did. But it was reassuring to be looking my best.
In the taxi, being very careful to sit so that the back of the black
silk coat did not get mussed and careful not to touch anything that
would soil my gloves, I felt a little cold suddenly because I could not
remember what, if anything, Pete had ever liked about me except my
looks. I would have to think back to find out, nearly two months since I
had seen him, and, before that, there was the six months’ war . . . (Oh,
do not think about that, think about what I am going to say when I see
him.)
He sat, in a blue suit that I had not seen, smoking, with an empty
cocktail glass in front of him. He looked lean and hard, and a little
strange, somehow. He did not see me until I was quite close.
“Oh, there you are, Pat, how are you? What’ll you drink?”
“A Martini, I think.”
“All right; let’s order dinner right away; then we can talk,” he said.
“You’re looking handsome, Pat.”
“You, too.”
“How’s the advertising business?”
“All right. I got a raise. How’s the newspaper business?”
“I got a raise, too. Have another Martini?”
“Yes, thank you.”
I felt cold and dry, like a Martini. I had sat across a narrow table
from Pete hundreds of times before, and felt as close to him as if the
lovely hardness of his arms were around me. Now there was a distance
compounded of lies and quarrels and separate adventures. I had not known
there would be such distance. Perhaps it could be bridged. (Do not hurry
him—try to think. I cannot. I want to say, “Take me back; give me
another chance, so I’ll come alive again.”)
I took out a handkerchief, so that I could look at myself in the mirror
of my purse. My face was composed. That was good.
“Have you replaced me yet, Pat?” He grinned, a friendly enough grin.
“No.” (I have to do something about this. I do not know whether it will
be right or stupid, but I have to do something.)
“Haven’t you missed me, really, Pete?”
“A person misses anyone that’s been around as long as you. I’m
convalescing slowly.”
I grew a little angry, and knew that I should not. “How’s your Great
Romance getting on, Pete?”
“Which one?”
The waiter took away the soup. Pete filled my wine glass.
“Hilda-with-the-pure-soul, I mean?”
“Oh, that’s all shot to hell; hadn’t you heard?” His voice was entirely
casual. He ate fish with evident enjoyment. (“The sauces are good here,
aren’t they, Pat?”)
“No—I hadn’t heard— What happened?”
“I don’t mind telling you. The little girl raised outstanding hell one
night I was tight because I kissed someone whose name I don’t even
remember, dancing. She put on a show next day because I kept her waiting
ten minutes and came in smelling beery. Finally, all in one evening, she
tried to get me to promise to stop smoking, kissing, and drinking. God,
what a possessive woman! So I told her I couldn’t make the grade, and
she told me you were about what I deserved. Does that please you?”
“Not unduly.”
I finished my glass of wine, and drew a long breath. Pete filled the
glass again. “You are a grand-looking person, Pat.” But his voice was
still casual.
(Well, over the top. Nothing to lose; might gain something.) “And where
does the exit of Hilda leave me, Peter?”
“As you were.”
The waiter brought chicken.
“What does that mean, Pete?”
He smiled, gently, as if it were a matter of no importance.
He said, “Through.”
Neither of us said anything for a bit—just went on eating chicken. Pete
spoke first.
“I thought it would be pleasant to see you, to dine with you. It is. I’m
fond of you; think you’re charming looking, have a lovely voice and
hands and all that. And I’m sorry I put you through such scenes. You
can’t help being what you are, I suppose. Don’t worry about it; it was
my mistake in the first place. Have some more wine. . . . And by the
way, anytime you want a divorce, tell me and I’ll get things arranged.
I’m in no hurry myself of course. In fact I begin to feel that the
situation, as it is, affords me a certain protection. . . .”
I couldn’t talk for a minute. Then, “What do you mean by ‘being what I
am?’”
“Oh come on, Pat. What’s the use of going into that?”
“Why not?”
“I refuse to call you a slut when I’m taking you to dinner.”