Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

“You baked this yourself?”

He nodded.

“But you don’t bake.”

“I followed the recipe in one of your books. It’s really not that complicated, is it?”

He tilted back his head, waiting for an answer. The candlelight illuminated the patch of face powder and the white hairs in his nose. All at once, Francie felt she was about to vomit. She pushed back her chair.

“If you’ve got work to do or something, don’t let me keep you,” Roger said. “I’ll clean up.” He swirled the champagne in his glass, forcefully, into a tiny pink-and-golden maelstrom. “And Francie? About this divorce business-could you give it some thought?”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“That’s all I ask.” He raised his glass to her, champagne slopping over the side.

Nora had a 5:30 court, but Francie got stuck in traffic and arrived ten minutes late. Nora was already in the bubble, hitting with the assistant pro against a woman Francie didn’t know. Nora hadn’t said anything about doubles, Francie preferred singles-and weren’t they supposed to have a talk? Francie changed and hurried onto the court, stripping the cover off her racquet, apologizing. The women met her at the net.

“It turned into doubles,” Nora said. “Why don’t you play with Anne? Anne Franklin, Francie Cullingwood. Francie, Anne.”

They shook hands. Anne was pretty, slim, fine-complected, and didn’t quite look Francie in the eye: no doubt the shy hausfrau Nora had mentioned. “I’ve heard such good things about you,” Anne said.

“Who’s been talking?”

Anne blinked. “Why, Nora.”

“Don’t believe a word she says,” Francie said. “What side do you like?”

“Forehand,” Anne said. “But if that’s your side, I could…”

“Not a problem,” Francie said, going to the backhand, swinging her racquet lightly, trying to make her arm feel long. She always played better if her arm felt long.

“Hit a few, Francie?” called Nora from the other side of the net.

“Serve ’em up,” Francie said, not wanting to delay the game any more.

The assistant pro went to the net and Nora got ready to serve. “Better stay back on the first one,” said Anne. “I have trouble with her serve.”

“Tell me about it,” said Francie, backing to the baseline.

Nora boomed in her big serve, the jamming one that spun nastily into the returner’s hands. To Francie’s surprise, Anne stepped away-fast and light on her feet-and chipped a low forehand crosscourt. If Nora had a weakness it was getting down for the low volley; she could do no more than float Anne’s return back down the middle, two or three feet above the net, and Francie, closing, put it easily away.

“Beautiful volley,” said Anne.

“Your setup,” Francie said.

Nora’s next serve kicked out wide on Francie’s backhand. Francie didn’t quite get around on it and the assistant pro picked off her return, angling it at Anne’s feet from point-blank range. Somehow Anne dug it out, bunting it down the alley for a clean winner.

“Partner,” said Francie.

They broke Nora at love, something Francie didn’t remember seeing before, won the first set 6–2. Neither did Francie remember the last time she’d played with a doubles partner whose game so nicely fit her own, Anne’s speed and steadiness matching her power and shot-making.

“What’ve you guys been smoking?” asked Nora on the changeover.

They toweled off, drank water, changed sides. “New in town?” said Francie as she and Anne walked toward the baseline.

“No,” Anne said. “Just getting back into the game now that my kid’s a little older. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it.”

“Boy or girl?” said Francie.

“Girl.”

“What’s her name?”

“Emilia.”

“Pretty.”

“And what about your kids?” said Anne.

“Don’t have any,” Francie replied, handing her the balls. “Your serve.”

Francie didn’t play as well in the second set, but Anne played even better, and the assistant pro, frustrated, lost her cool a little and started blasting the ball with all her might, usually out. Six-one.

“Thanks for putting up with me,” said Anne as they went to the net to shake hands.

“Putting up with you?” said Francie. “I was on your back the whole second set.” She tapped Anne’s behind with her racquet. “Nice playing.”

After, they sat in the bar, Francie, Nora, Anne. The club had a new microbrew on tap. Nora ordered a pitcher. Francie signed the chit. “You like microbrews, Anne?” Nora asked, filling their glasses.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever tried one.”

“Live a little,” said Nora. She raised her glass. “Here’s to fuzzy balls.”

The bartender, used to Nora, didn’t even turn, but Anne’s face, still a little pink from tennis, went pinker. She took a tiny sip, said, “It’s very good,” put down her glass.

“While on that subject,” said Nora, downing half of hers, “I may be getting married this spring. Or next week.”

“Congratulations,” Anne said.

“She’s just being funny,” Francie said.

“Not true. Bernie wants to marry me.”

“Did you ever get his last name?”

“Does it matter? I’m not going to use it anyway.”

“I kept my maiden name,” Anne said. “My parents weren’t too happy about it.”

“Maiden name,” said Nora. “Can you believe an expression like that? If you ever started really thinking about things, you’d want to shoot everybody.” She refilled her glass. “With the exception of Bernie. He’s kind, sweet, and gentle. He does have that toenail thing, though.”

“Fungus?” said Francie.

“Whatever it is turns their nails all hard and yellow.” Nora went to the bathroom.

Anne, still pink, turned to Francie. “Nora mentioned your husband was quite a tennis player.”

“He was,” Francie said. “And yours?”

“He doesn’t play. I–I’ve tried to get him interested, but he has no free time.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a psychologist.” Anne took another sip of beer, bigger than the first, as though fortifying herself. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I hope it’s not too pushy.”

“We’ll never know at this rate.”

Anne went pinker still, and Francie felt a little ashamed of herself. “Are you and Nora playing in the tournament?”

“What tournament?”

“The club doubles championship.”

“We don’t play together anymore. Not in tournaments.”

“But you won it a bunch of times-I saw in the trophy case.”

“We finally decided to preserve the friendship instead.”

“I know you’re joking. You’re both so supportive on the court.”

“Not of each other. The last tournament we played they called the police.” Anne’s eyes widened. “Now I am joking,” Francie said; how delicate this woman was. “What’s on your mind?”

“First,” said Anne, “I’d better confess I don’t usually play as well as I did tonight. Not nearly.”

“And second?”

“I wondered if you’d like to be my partner in the tournament.”

“How could I say no?”

Nora was back, Anne gone. “She’s not as fragile as she makes out,” Nora said. “See the way she went right at me with that overhead in the second set?”

“She probably assumed you’d be moving to cover the empty court.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m fat?”

“No. ‘ You’re fat’is my way of saying you’re fat.”

“So you’re not saying it?”

“My meaning is clear.”

“Because even supposing I’d put on three or four or fifteen pounds-did you notice how hard I’m hitting the ball?”