Donald Westlake - Two Much!

“What about her?” Liz seemed surprised by the question, but not upset.

“Does she have to get married, too?”

“You don’t have to worry about Betty,” she said inaccurately. “Just about us.”

“I’m trying to get the overall picture.”

“Screw the overall picture.” She was doing some table-tapping of her own now; I could see she was becoming increasingly edgy. “Make up your mind, Art,” she said. “And do it soon. This is a one-time offer, and the deadline’s getting close.”

Well, of course, there wasn’t any question. I already had my access to the Kerner fortune, no strings attached, through Bart’s marriage to Betty. I’d only stalled along here for information’s sake, not because I thought for a second I could or should marry Liz.

Of course, on the other hand...

What other hand? I already had everything, I didn’t need anything more, and this whole charade was wearing itself out anyway. I would mothball Art and live for a while exclusively as Bart, as planned. Toward which end, nothing could be more helpful than this contract; all I had to do now was become insulted, righteous, what kind of boy do you think I am? , growing anger, a scene, and me stalking away into the night. Then Art would be safely out of the picture, and Bart would loll peaceably in luxury.

“Art? It’s now or never.”

The alternative? No alternative. Impossible. And unnecessary, goddam it Bart was married to Betty, wasn’t that enough?

“Art?”

And it wasn’t. Don’t ask me why, it just wasn’t. I wanted to marry Liz, I wanted to go on being Art, I even wanted to run this gauntlet some more. I’d rather do anything than live twenty-four hours a day as Bart, married twenty-four hours a day to Betty.

“Art?”

Shit. I raised my head and smiled across at my bride-to-be. “I think this occasion calls for champagne,” I said. “On you.”

My dreams were full of mirrors, and when I awoke the room was backward. Or I was. Sunlight hummed beyond the curtained and draped windows, making an underwater glow in which I saw my clothing scattered about the carpeted floor. My head ached, and the air conditioning made my shoulders cold. Groaning a bit, though mostly in comfort, I wriggled down deeper under the covers, and beside me Betty murmured and moved, rubbing her warm hip against my side. I touched her near breast, she sighed and reached for me, and soon we were in marital conjugation, all legal and aboveboard.

Later, my headache came back, and my eyes seemed to be burning. I flopped onto my own side of the bed, damp with exertion, and Betty, fully awake now, rose up on one elbow to give me a lewd look and to say, “I must admit you make a first-rate fiancé.”

“You mean husband,” I said. Then I realized I was seeing her far too clearly, and I blinked. No wonder my eyes hurt; my contact lenses were still in. But that wasn’t right; as Bart I was a glasses wearer. I’d have to get into the bathroom and make the switch before she noticed anything. In the meantime, I tried squinting, like your average four-eyes without his specs.

“Husband?” Betty echoed, looking at me. “Let’s not rush things, lover.”

I stared at her, forgetting to squint. Betty? This wasn’t Betty, this was Liz!

Holy jumping Jehosephat! I won’t say it all came rushing back to me, but a lot of it did, and I could fill in the rest. Liz and Art: we had toasted our engagement in champagne, and then some more champagne, and then some more champagne. Then a cab had brought us here, I had come upstairs, I had entered this room and this bed and this woman, and all the time I had planned to leave right afterward, make my exit as Art, wait ten minutes or so, and then re-enter as Bart, who would tippy-toe to Betty’s bed and sleep the sleep of a husband. Instead of which, I had fallen asleep. Asleep.

And now it was morning. What time? Was Betty awake? How was I going to get Art out of here without leaving as Bart? With this head and these eyes, how was I going to do anything?

Betty — that is, Liz — was frowning at me. “Something wrong?”

“Bladder,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

“You’re so romantic,” she said.

The sisters had separate rooms and separate lavatories, but shared a room with a tub. I hurried out of Liz’s sharp-eyed presence, closed the lavatory door behind me, and pushed the lock button. Now what? Around me were toilet, sink, towels, mirror. Mirrors. “I could use you next door,” I told my reflection, and hurried through the next room past the tub and on into Betty’s lavatory, where my reflection recurred, but had nothing to say for himself. I paused, took a deep breath, considered my naked body in the mirror without noticing anything that might excite Betty’s suspicions, and pushed open the door.

Betty was sitting up, looking bleary-eyed and prodding the heel of her hand into the top of her head. “Oh, there you are,” she said, her voice fuzzy. “I have a horrible headache.”

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Squint, I reminded myself You are Bart, and you are not wearing your glasses. “How are you this morning?”

“I told you,” she said crossly. “I have a headache.”

“Oh, you poor thing. Wait right there, I’ll get you some aspirin.” And I turned around and headed right back into the john, closing the door behind me.

Betty was going to take a few minutes, I could see that already. Bare feet sprinting on the tiles, I headed through to Liz’s lavatory, reassured myself the door was locked, and turned on both faucets at the sink. Then I went back the other way again, closing the sliding doors at both ends of the central room with the tub, so that the water running couldn’t be heard by Betty. Panting slightly, I got aspirin from the medicine cabinet, put water in the toothbrush glass, and returned to Betty, who was half-propped up against the headboard, frowning into the middle distance. “Here you are, my darling.”

“Did I drink that much last night? My head feels just terrible.”

“Maybe there was something wrong with the coq au vin ,” I said. Then I remembered it was the coq au vin I’d spiked with the sleeping capsules, and wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

But maybe not Looking at me, squinting even worse than I was, Betty said, “You know, you could be right. I thought there was some sort of, I don’t know, bitter taste or something in the sauce.”

“It was probably turning,” I said. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I solicitously fed my bride the aspirin and water. “You’ll feel better soon now,” I promised her. “Why not nap for a while, an hour or so?” Long enough for Art to get the hell out of here.

“Lie down with me,” she said. “You’ve spoiled me, I can’t sleep alone any more.”

“Yes, dear,” I said. Would she be soon asleep? Was the drain working properly in Liz’s sink? Was Liz even now calling to Art through that locked door and wondering what on earth was wrong? My own headache thundering away, but a fixed smile of compassion on my face, I slid into bed next to Betty. “Put your head on the pillow now,” I said. “Close your eyes. Try to nap.”

“Yes, love.” She murmured and moved, rubbing her warm hip against my side. When I remained unresponsive, she took my hand and placed it on her near breast, then sighed and reached for me.

“Darling,” I said, “you should try to—”

“Silly boy,” she whispered. “Cure me, lover.”

So all right; that was marital conjugation.

My headache never went away. Later, I flopped onto my own side of the bed, very damp with exertion, and Betty sleepily stroked my belly, saying, “Oh, I feel much better already.”