Эд Макбейн - Privileged Conversation

“I really can’t spend that much.”

“In that case, I’ve got just the bike for you,” Rickie says and pulls down a sporty number in the Raleigh line, which he describes as “Your sweet little M60 with a chrome-moly frame and STX Rapid Fire Plus shifters and Shimano Parallax alloy hubs. Comes in the metallic anthracite you see here.”

“How much is it?”

“Three ninety-nine, how’s that for on the nose?”

“What else have you got?” she asks.

He spends another twenty minutes showing her bikes, at the end of which time Kate settles on a purple fade, multitrack cro-moly sport with your basic high-tensile steel stays and steel fork and your Araya alloy 36-hole rims and your white decals for a mere three hundred and forty-nine dollars.

David leaves her in the shop with her credit card and Chief Running Mouth while he rushes back up to Ninety-sixth Street where he buys a hot dog with your basic mustard and sauerkraut on Lexington Avenue and gets to his office in time to greet his next patient, Alex J, who tells him that just when he thought he was making real progress, he’s started rubbing up against girls in the subway again.

When Kate phones the apartment at twenty to seven that night, she seems to have completely forgotten the Buying of the Bike. Or perhaps he’s the one who’s exaggerated it out of all proportion. He asks her to wait a minute because he’s just put his dinner in the microwave and if they’re going to talk, he wants to run into the kitchen to turn it off. He takes his good sweet time doing so, letting her cool her heels even though he knows she’s calling from the backstage phone, punishing her for her behavior earlier today. When at last he returns to the study and picks up the receiver, he says, “Okay, I’m back,” and hopes his inflection properly conveys a sense of distance. She seems not to notice.

“We’re dark tonight, you know,” she says, “but I made dinner plans a long time ago. With one of the girls.”

“Too bad,” he says.

“Can you come over later?”

“No, I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“What time does your plane leave?” she asks.

“Four o’clock.”

“Will you be going from your apartment or the office?”

“The office. I quit early on Fridays.”

“So you can go up there.”

“Yes. Right after my last patient leaves.”

“What time will that be?”

“Ten to two.”

“Can I see you before you go to the airport?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you coming to my place tomorrow morning?”

“No, I can’t. I have a patient coming in at eight. On Fridays...”

“Sure, a short day.”

“Yes.”

“How long is the flight?”

“An hour and twelve minutes.”

“So you’ll be up there at twelve past five.”

“Well, five-seventeen. It leaves at four-oh-five, actually.”

“Will Helen be waiting at the airport?”

“Yes. And the kids.”

There is a long silence. In the background, he can hear voices moving in and out of focus. He visualizes dancers in cat costumes rushing past the phone, dancers stretching. He can hear someone running a voice exercise, phmmmm-ahhhh, phmmmm-eeeee, phmmmm-ohhhh, over and over again.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“Is it Rickie?”

“Who’s Rickie?”

“The guy from the bike shop. You know who Rickie is.”

“Was that his name?”

“He asked me out,” she says.

David says nothing.

“I told him I’d think about it.”

“Fine.”

“We’re not married, you know.”

“I know that.”

“You have a life that doesn’t include me, you know.”

“That’s right.”

“So you can’t get angry if somebody...”

“I’m not angry.”

“Anyway, I didn’t say yes. I just said I’d think about it.”

“Did you give him your number?”

“No.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You’re angry, right?”

“No, I told you I’m not.”

“Good. Then why don’t I come to your office tomorrow?”

“I have patients all...”

“On your lunch hour, I mean. So I can see you before you go up to the Vineyard.”

“Well...”

“Do you have to go up to the Vineyard?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you stay in the city instead?”

“I can’t.”

“Why don’t you marry me?”

“I’m already married.”

“Divorce her and marry me. Then we can make love all day and all night. And you won’t have to worry about Rickie. Or anybody else. Not that you have to, anyway. What time do you have lunch? Twelve?”

“Yes.”

“That’s when we met in the park.”

“I know.”

“Twenty minutes after twelve. On the last day of June. I’ll never forget it. Do you have a couch?”

“Of course I do.”

“Of course, a shrink. Is it leather?”

“Yes.”

“Good, we’ll do it on your couch.”

I couldn’t believe we were doing it right on the office couch .

“What color is it?”

“Black.”

“I’ll wear black panties to match.”

“Fine.”

“And a black garter belt.”

“Fine.”

“With black seamed stockings and a black leather skirt.”

“Okay.”

I was so ashamed of myself .

“Don’t be angry, David. Please.”

“I’m not.”

“The doorman’ll think I’m one of your nymphomaniac patients.”

“Probably.”

“Do you have any nymphomaniac patients?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“That means yes.”

“No, it means I can’t tell you.”

“Well, you’ll have one tomorrow. Does that excite you?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I call you when I get home tonight?”

“No, I want to get some sleep.”

“Right, you have to leave for the Vineyard.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll see you at twelve tomorrow. Who shall I say I am? If the doorman asks me.”

“You don’t have to give him a name. Just say you’re there for Dr. Chapman.”

“Oh, yes, I will most certainly be there for Dr. Chapman.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“You’re supposed to say you love me,” she says.

“I love you,” he says.

“Of course you do,” she says, and hangs up.

She arrives at the stroke of noon Friday.

He comes out of his private office when he hears the outside bell ringing, and finds her standing in the waiting room, studying the deliberately neutral prints on the wall. She is wearing a short-sleeved white cotton blouse and a pleated watch-plaid miniskirt with black thigh-high stockings and laced black shoes. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, fastened with a ribbon that picks up the blue in the blue-green skirt. He wonders if she’s wearing the black panties she promised. She does not look at all like the nymphomaniac she advertised on the telephone last night. Instead, she looks like a preppie in a school uniform.

“Hi,” she says.

“Come in,” he says.

She prowls his office like a cat, studying his framed diplomas, running her palm over the smooth polished top of his desk, looking up at the curlicued tin ceiling painted a neutral off-white, circling the desk again, running her forefinger over the slats of the Venetian blinds behind it, studying the finger for dust, pursing her lips in disapproval as she swipes it clean on the short pleated skirt, and then at last going to the black leather couch, and sitting erect on it, her black-stockinged knees pressed together, her hands on her thighs, the palms flat.

“Would you like to know why I’m here, Doctor?” she asks in a quavering little voice, and it is obvious at once that she is about to play the role of a troubled adolescent girl here to consult an understanding shrink. He wonders again if she is wearing black panties under the skirt.