Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

But this time the peroration was different.

Lying flat on his back, legs together, arms at his sides, staring at the ceiling for all the world like a stripped corpse being fitted for a shroud, Clayton declared:

"I've decided to change my life. Change it completely."

It was said in a challenging tone, as if he expected opposition and was prepared to overcome it.

"Change it how, Clay?" she asked.

"I'm going to leave Eleanor. People are supposed to grow closer together in a marriage; we've grown farther apart. We're strangers. I don't know her anymore, and she doesn't know me. It's not the way I want to spend the rest of my life."

"Have you said anything to her?"

"No, not yet. Before I do, I want to get mother's reaction. And yours."

"Mine?" Helene said, fearing what was coming. "I have nothing to do with it."

He turned his head on the pillow to stare at her. "You do. Because if mother approves-or at least is neutral-and I leave Eleanor, I want to marry you."

She was nothing if not an accomplished actress, and her face and voice displayed all the proper reactions: shock, pleasure, dubiety. "Clay," she started, "I'm not-"

But he held up a palm to stop her. "Wait a minute; let me make my case. First of all, my marriage has become unendurable. That's a given. And I see no possibility of the situation improving. Absolutely not. So no matter what you decide, my life with Eleanor is finished. You mustn't think you're responsible for the breakup. It would have happened even if I had never met you."

"Shall I get us a drink?" she asked.

"No, not yet; I don't need it. Helene, I know I'm twice your age, but surely there are other things more important. We think alike, laugh at the same things, get along beautifully, and we're building up a lot of shared memories, aren't we?"

"Yes."

"I may not be the world's greatest stud, but I'm not a complete dud, am I?"

"It's all I can do to keep up with you," she assured him, and he smiled with pleasure.

"The most important thing is your future," he said earnestly. "Your financial future. And that I can guarantee. I know that if I wasn't helping you out, you'd be depending on your brother's generosity. But how long do you want to do that? And what if he suffers financial reverses-it's always possible-then where are you? What I'm offering you is security, now and for the future. You must think about your future."

"Yes," she said, "I must."

"Marry me, and we can draw up some kind of agreement so that even if I die suddenly or our marriage doesn't work out, you'll be well taken care of. I know how much you enjoy the good life. This is your chance to make certain you can keep enjoying it."

"You're quite a salesman," she said with a tinny laugh. "I think I better have a drink now. May I bring you one?"

"Yes," he said. "All right."

Naked in the kitchen, leaning stiff-armed on the coun-tertop, she wondered how she might finesse this complication. She wished Turner was there to advise her, but then she knew what he'd say: stall, stall, stall. Until they could figure out the permutations and decide where their best interest lay.

She poured vodka over ice, added lime wedges, and carried the two glasses back to the bedroom: a proud, erect young woman with a dancer's body and appetites without end.

She handed Clayton his drink, then sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed.

"I won't say anything about your leaving your wife," she said. "I've never suggested it, have I? Never even hinted at it. It's really your decision and none of my business. But I don't understand why you feel you must marry me. Why can't we continue just the way we have been? I'm perfectly content."

He shook his head. "First of all, I happen to be a very conventional man. Tradition and all that. If I'm to have a long-term relationship with a woman, it should be legal; that's the way I was brought up. Second, for purely selfish reasons I want you for my wife. I want to be seen with you in public, take you to the theatre and parties, hear you introduced as Mrs. Clayton Starrett. I don't want people smirking and whispering, 'There's Clay with his floozy.' That wouldn't reflect well on Starrett Fine Jewelry. Bad public relations."

"I can see you've given this a lot of serious thought."

"Yes, I have," he said, missing the irony completely, "and I think you should, too. I don't expect an answer this minute, but if you think it over carefully, I know you'll see the advantages, especially security-wise."

"You don't mind if I tell my brother about this, do you?"

"Of course not," he said with a rapscallion grin. "I was counting on it. I know how close you two are, and I'm betting he'll be all for it. He'll tell you it's the smart thing to do: look out for Numero Uno."

She didn't reply.

He finished his drink and climbed out of bed. "Listen, I've got to get back to the office. Things are in a mess since Sol passed. Dick Satterlee has taken over and is doing what he can. But Sol carried a lot in his head, and it's going to take a while to get things straightened out."

After he was dressed, he tugged a small suede pouch from his side pocket and tossed it onto the bed. "Two carats. Pear-shaped. There's a tiny inclusion in the base but you'll never notice it."

"Thank you," she said faintly.

"I hope the next stone I give you will be in a solitaire," he said. "And I promise it'll be larger than two carats."

"Clay," she said, "do you love me?"

He waved a hand. "That goes without saying," he said, and bent down to kiss her.

After he was gone, the door locked, bolted, and chained behind him, she added the new diamond to her hoard and sat staring at the glittering heap. She didn't want to call Turner immediately. She needed time to think, to plan, to figure the best way to look out for Numero Uno.

The snow had melted, but the gutters were awash with garbage and some street corners were small lakes. But having gained almost five pounds during the holiday at home, Dora decided the walk downtown would do her good. This was after lunch with John Wenden during which she virtuously nibbled on a small tuna sandwich and drank nothing but tea.

"Are you sick?" John asked.

"Diet," she explained. "My New Year's resolution."

"I made one, too," he said, swilling his beer. "To cut out the beer."

Strangely, they spoke little of the Starrett case at lunch. Mostly they exchanged memories of Christmases past when they were children and the world was bright with hope and their dreams without limit.

"That didn't last long," Wenden said. "By the time I was ten I knew I would never be president, of anything."

"Even as a kid I was chubby," Dora said. "All the beautiful, popular girls chose me for a friend because they didn't want any competition."

"No one chose me for a friend," he said. "I've always been a loner. Maybe that's why my marriage flopped."

"Do you ever see your ex?"

"No," he said shortly. "I hear she's been dating a barber from Yonkers. Serves her right."

Dora laughed. "I think you should get married again, John."

He brightened. "My first proposal this year!"

"Not me, dummy," she said. "I'm taken."

"Not even for a week?" he asked, looking at her.

"Not even for a night. You just don't give up, do you?"

"You've never cheated on your husband?"

"Never."

"He wouldn't know. It would be an act of charity."

"It would be an act of stupidity," she said.

Plodding downtown, trying to leap over puddles and avoid a splashing from passing cabs, Dora thought of that luncheon conversation and smiled at John's persistence. It was a compliment, she supposed, to have a man come on so strongly. But it was worrisome, too, and she wondered how the hell Mike Trevalyan had guessed immediately what Wenden's motives were, without even meeting the guy. Maybe, she thought shrewdly, because Trevalyan had similar desires.