Ed McBain - Cinderella

“Well, I had three closings today,” Matthew said. “I was out of the office till four-thirty. Maybe she—”

“I’m sure she would have left a message.”

“I didn’t get any.”

“Then she didn’t call.”

“Maybe she was afraid I’d say no.” Matthew shrugged. “The Father’s Day weekend, you know.”

“Maybe.” Susan really did look troubled. “Anyway, I wasn’t expecting you. I figured...”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and put his drink down on the bar. “If you’ve made other plans...”

“No, that’s not it,” Susan said, “it’s just... I was in the shower... I must look like a drowned cat.”

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“Sure, sure, sweet talker.”

There was an awkward silence. She made an abrupt motion, as if she were about to raise her hand to fluff her hair, the way women will do when they feel they are being observed or admired or both, and then aborted the motion and shrugged girlishly and said, “Did I hear you offer me a drink?”

“Name it,” he said.

“A Beefeater martini, on the rocks,” she said.

He looked at her.

“Yeah,” she said, and grinned.

When they were married, their most frequent argument was what Matthew had labeled the Beefeater Martini Argument. It had been Susan’s contention that Matthew never got drunk when he drank, for example, two Scotches with soda or two anythings with soda, but that he always got drunk or fuzzy or furry or slurry (these were all Susan’s words) when he had two martinis, especially two Beefeater martinis. The magic word Beefeater somehow added more potency to the drink.

But now, two years and much gin under the bridge later, here was Susan asking for the evil potion that changed men to furry, fuzzy beasts and worked God knew what transformation on nice Presbyterian girls from the state of Illinois.

“Very dry, with two olives,” Susan said.

He began mixing the drink.

“I hate it when she breaks her word,” Susan said. “She’s growing up so fast, isn’t she? She’ll be a woman before we know it. Then will we have troubles,” she said, and rolled her eyes.

He did not miss the word we .

Silently, he mixed the drink.

“You’re right, it must have been because of Father’s Day,” Susan said. “She was probably embarrassed to ask.”

“I’m sure,” Matthew said, and handed her the glass.

“Thank you,” Susan said. “What it is, Matthew, Diana’s brother is home from Duke for the summer, and he was going to Palm Beach with the family, and I think Joanna has a bit of a crush on him, and so ...” She rolled her eyes again, let the sentence trail, shrugged, raised her glass, and said, “Shall we drink to Electra’s demise?”

Matthew smiled.

“But you didn’t pour one for yourself,” she said.

“I’m drinking Canadian,” he said and lifted his glass from the bar.

“I thought you drank—”

“They make me furry and fuzzy,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Did you mix enough for two?”

“I did.”

“Then join me,” she said. “If we’re going to get furry and fuzzy, we ought to do it together.”

He poured himself a martini, and dropped two olives into the glass.

“That’s much better,” she said, and nodded.

They raised their glasses. They clinked them together. They drank.

“Shall we go outside?” Susan said. “Sit by the pool?”

There did not used to be a pool here when Matthew shared the house with her. The settlement money had bought one. Or the alimony payments. Or both. He tried not to feel bitter about the alimony payments. Bitterness could spoil a good martini. He followed her out to the pool. She was wearing only the terry cloth robe, hardly the sexiest garment in the world, and she was barefoot, no heels to give her ass and her breasts a perky, sexy lift — but somehow she looked sexy enough.

They sat in lounge chairs beside the pool. Matthew figured the pool and patio had cost at least eighteen grand.

“You really think she was afraid to call me, huh?” he said.

“Oh, no question.”

“She should’ve put Grown-ups Inc. on the case.”

“Oh my God !” Susan said. “Do you remember that, too?”

“I was thinking of it on the way out here,” he said, smiling, nodding.

“Grown-ups Inc., that was a century ago,” she said, and fell silent.

On the canal beyond the pool, a fish jumped.

He couldn’t remember now who had first come up with the notion. As with most of the games they had played when they were married (had they really played games, had there really been fun?), it had probably been a collaborative effort, one of them saying something that led to an elaboration that led to an embellishment that led to a fillip, and there you were! Grownups Inc.

The way Grown-ups Inc. worked was really quite simple. If, for example, your building superintendent wasn’t sending up enough heat, and you were either afraid or embarrassed to call him and demand more heat, you called Grown-ups Inc. instead, and you said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do, there’s not enough heat in the apartment, and I have a three-year-old daughter—”

That would’ve been about right for when they’d invented Grown-ups Inc. Joanna had been about three, and they were still living in Chicago where it got damn cold in the wintertime and where if you didn’t have heat you could freeze to death.

“—and the apartment is like an igloo.”

“We’ll take care of it,” the man from Grown-ups Inc. would say.

And he would call the super and tell him, “This is Grownups Inc., we’re calling for Matthew Hope, we want the heat turned higher in his apartment at once, thank you very much.”

The uses of Grown-ups Inc. were manifold.

Need theater tickets? An indoor tennis court from five to six? A dinner for eight served on your veranda? A birthday telegram, Valentine’s Day chocolates, Mother’s Day flowers, Father’s Day tie?

Grown-ups Inc. would take care of all or any of these things painlessly. Grown-ups Inc. was premised on the sound concept that everyone needed a grown-up he could turn to. Marine generals needed grown-ups they could turn to. Women activists needed grown-ups. The president of the United States needed a grown-up. Terrorists needed grown-ups. In Grownups Inc. there was a grown-up for everyone, a grown-up to serve every need. Want to ask for a raise? Grown-ups Inc. would call your boss. Want to plan a trip to Bombay or Siam? No need to call a travel agent. Grown-ups Inc. would take care of it because Grown-ups Inc. took care of everything .

In fantasy, they had used Grown-ups Inc. more times than they could count. There was once a rat the size of a zeppelin in the Chicago apartment and the moment Susan saw it, she yelled, “Call Grown-ups Inc., quick!” Out on The Windbag one day, they were caught in a sudden squall that threatened to capsize the boat, and Matthew — clinging to the wheel for dear life — grinned weakly, and told Susan to get on the radio to Grown-ups Inc.

There was nothing Grown-ups Inc. could not do.

“Do you know...?” Susan said softly, and then stopped, and shook her head.

“What?” he said.

“When...” She shook her head again.

“Tell me.”

“When I... when I found out that night about you and... shit, I still can’t say her name.”

“Aggie,” he said.

“Aggie, yes,” Susan said, and sighed. “When I found out about her that night, I... I... went all to pieces, you know, I didn’t know what to do. And I... I thought... when Matthew comes home, we’ll have to call Grown-ups Inc. They’ll solve it for us.” She nodded bleakly. “But of course that’s not what happened, is it? Because there isn’t any Grown-ups Inc.”