Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“Come on! Say yes. Go ahead and tell him. Tell him you’re having lunch with your old boss. Nothing strange about that.”

“He would think it was strange. Having lunch with the man who fired me. He would want to know what you wanted.”

“I need your advice,” Gelb said.

“My advice? What about?”

“It’s a secret.”

“How are you going to get my advice if it’s a secret?”

“I can’t talk about it on the phone. But …” He hesitated. “I may have a job for you.”

“You want to hire me?” Patty said, flabbergasted. Would he really go that far just to get laid? Hire somebody he believed was incompetent? Wouldn’t a whore be cheaper and less of a fuss?

“Come to lunch. I’ll tell you about it.”

“You can tell me now.”

“No.” He was firm. “Come to lunch. You have nothing to worry about. I’m not going to assault you in a restaurant.”

“Where are we going?”

“How about the Four Seasons? You love that place.”

“Okay,” she said, without considering it. She could cancel. She didn’t care how rudely she treated him.

“Great! See you there at twelve, all right?”

“Okay.”

“Love you. Bye.” And he hung up before she could refuse to accept so intimate a statement. He had managed to leave her feeling furious. He had gotten her to agree to see him. And he had insulted her by sneaking that farewell — the good-bye of an accepted lover — in at the end. She looked at the pages in her typewriter, unseeing, back in her past, living again as a confused and scared young woman battered by embarrassments. She wished she could have it all back to replay her stupid responses. Maybe at lunch she could do that. Desert Gelb, leave him with his erection at the table, laugh at his unsatisfied desire for her.

The heavy lock on the door to the hallway turned. David was home. Patty moved hastily, guiltily, putting away her manuscript and her thoughts. Both felt like betrayals of David.

David found her standing awkwardly in the middle of the room waiting for him. She felt like a teenager who has frantically put out the illicit cigarette and desperately fanned at the residual odor and smoke.

“Hey! You’re up!” he said with the exuberance of a drunk. Were all the men in the world loaded tonight? she wondered. He went to her unsteadily and hugged her. She didn’t want the embrace and moved quickly out of it.

“Did you close the section?”

“I have to go in tomorrow for a while. Check on a few things. Basically it’s done.”

“What happened? The world blow up?”

“No. … What did you …? Oh, you had a dinner with Tony’s wife.”

“Betty. Her name is Betty.”

“My, my.” David looked amused at Patty’s seriousness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be sexist.”

“I was just telling you her name. God, am I in a foul mood,” she said, by way of apology. In fact, she had been in a great mood until Gelb called.

“Why? Did she say something?”

“Who?” Patty, thinking of Gelb, couldn’t imagine what woman he meant.

David smiled. “Tony’s wife,” he said pointedly.

Patty smiled back. It was this, his wit, that she had once been so fond of. Still was fond of. “No.”

“Well …” He moved to her, gently putting an arm around her. “What is it?”

Patty felt a sudden revulsion at her behavior, at her distrust of David. “I gave something to Betty to read.”

“Something?”

“A novel I’ve been writing.”

“You mean, not the romance novel?”

“No, a serious … Something of my own.”

“No kidding!” David looked startled. “How long have you been working on it?”

“A month. A few weeks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure I could keep it up. I wanted to wait until I was really into it. Am I terrible?”

“No. I understand. I would be the same way.”

“You mean to say you wouldn’t tell me if you were working on a novel?”

David laughed. “Just like you.”

“But that’s terrible!” Patty insisted, her face a perfect mask of shock and outrage. “Don’t you trust me?”

David smiled. “I never know when you’re kidding.”

“Good,” Patty answered. “Don’t you want to read what I’ve written?”

“Sure.” But he looked doubtful, his eyes red, his feet unsteady.

“You’re too tired.”

“No!” he said firmly, but then sagged. “Is there any coffee?”

“You can read it tomorrow.”

“Oh, for Chrissakes. You want me to read it now.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

“Get me the pages and some coffee.”

Patty hustled over to the desk, pulling the manuscript out of its grave, buried under several hundred sheets of blank typing paper in the bottom drawer.

David laughed. “You really didn’t want me to know.”

She smiled and gave him the pages, rushing out of the room to the kitchen, relieved to have something to do.

The coffee took forever to heat up. She couldn’t hear anything while she waited — no paper rustling, no laughter, no groans — and she became convinced he had fallen asleep. But no. He was sitting up reading attentively. As she approached with the coffee, she got a view of his profile. His lips were pressed tight, his chin up. He looked prissy and dissatisfied. She knew it. He was going to hate her novel, probably spoil her desire to go on. She should never have succumbed to her hungry vanity. She handed him the coffee.

He looked up. His eyes looked funny. Patty thought for a moment that his wide and confused eyes were due to drunkenness, but when he took the cup and stared longer at her, she knew it was the writing. “They’re good,” he said, his tone surprised.

“You haven’t read very much. Maybe you won’t like the rest.”

David’s eyes slowly returned to her pages. “They’re good,” he said again slowly, a man in shock, repeating unbelievable news to himself. “They’re good,” he mumbled once more.

I’m gonna give it to her. Fred thought furiously. He looked at the shadowed figure of Marion in the taxi. The seat made her look small, a fat little girl, her head barely reaching above the window. I’m gonna let her have it, he thought again, the excitement of his resolution pumping through him. She thinks I’ll take it quietly like I always do, but I won’t. I’m gonna call her bluff. She can’t get away with making a fool of me anymore.

The Plexiglas partition between Fred and the driver was frosty with dust and scratches, the side windows covered with stickers that warned or cajoled the customer with New York City Taxi Commission regulations. The seat seemed to be sliding down through the bottom of the car. There was nothing to look at but the shrinking form of his wife. His anger welled in his chest. But he couldn’t begin, frightened that once out, the flood of his rage would never subside and would end only by drowning them both.

No. no, he told himself. I won’t show fury. She’d like that. Prove to her how she got to me. I’ll give it to her cold. Aloof. Marion, as far as I’m concerned, our marriage is over. I don’t want you to accompany me on any social occasions, I can no longer promise to be faithful. I don’t give a shit about shopping for dinner. We can continue to live together but—

It made no sense.

If I hate her. I should leave her.

The taxi dropped into a pothole hard.

“Jesus.” Marion exclaimed.

The driver mumbled something.

“Watch where you’re going.” Marion called out.

Fred forgot his problem and felt dread that the taxi driver would get angry and start fighting. This driver looked insane. He had hair growing all over his body, he looked sooty, and his eyes were bloodshot. Fred had noticed all that when the cab stopped for them in front of Elaine’s, and had even considered waving him on, but didn’t, only because he was frightened that the driver, cheated of a fare, would get out and punch him.