Fortnight of Fear (9 page)

I finished up my vodka, and dropped a twenty on the counter. “Keep the cha-a-ange, my man,” I told the barkeep, with a magnanimous W.C. Fieldsian wave of my hand.

“Sir, there is no change. That'll be three dollars and seventy-five cents more.”

“That's inflation for you,” Norman remarked, with a phlegmy cough. “Even oblivion is pricing itself out of the market.”

I left the bar and walked back up to 17th Street. It was unexpectedly cool for July. My footsteps echoed like the footsteps of some lonely man in some 1960s spy movie. I wasn't sober but I wasn't drunk, either. I wasn't very much looking forward to returning home.

When I let myself in, the loft was in darkness. Jill had unlocked the bedroom door, but when I eased it open, and looked inside, she was asleep. She had her back to me, and the quilt drawn up to her shoulders, but even in the darkness I could see that she was wearing her pajamas. Pajamas meant we're not talking, stay away.

I went into the kitchen and poured myself the dregs from a chilled bottle of Chablis, and switched the television on
low. It was a 1940s black-and-white movie called
They Stole Hitler's Brain
. I didn't want to sit there watching it; and at the same time I didn't want to go to bed either.

At a little after two, however, the bedroom door opened and Jill was standing there pale and puffy-eyed.

“Are you coming to bed?” she asked, in a clogged-up whisper. “You have work tomorrow.”

I looked at her for a long time with my lips puckered tight. Then I said, “Sure,” and stood up, and switched off the television.

In the morning, Jill brought me coffee and left my Swiss muesli out for me, and kissed me on the cheek before she left for the agency, but there were no explanations for what had happened the previous evening. The only words she spoke were, “Good morning,” and, “Goodbye.”

I called, “Jill?” but the only response I got was the loft door closing behind her.

I went to the office late and I brooded about it all morning. Around eleven-thirty I telephoned Jill's secretary and asked if Jill were free for lunch.

“No, Mr Deacon, I'm sorry. She had a last-minute appointment.”

“Do you happen to know where?”

“Hold on, I'll check her Filofax. Yes … here it is. One o'clock. No name, I'm afraid. No address, either. It just says ‘Apt.'”

“All right, Louise, thank you.”

I put down the phone and sat for a long time with my hand across my mouth, thinking. My assistant Fred Ruggiero came into my office and stared at me.

“What's the matter? You look like you're sick.”

“No, I was thinking. What does the word ‘apt' mean to you?”

Fred scratched the back of his neck. ‘I guess it means
like ‘appropriate,' you know. Or ‘fitting.' Or ‘suitable.' You doing a crossword?”

“No. I don't know. Sheila!”

One of our younger secretaries was bouncing along the corridor in beaded dreadlocks and a shocking-pink blouse. “Yes, Mr Deacon?”

I wrote ‘apt' on my notepad and showed it to her. “Does that mean anything to you?”

She grinned. “Is this a trick? If you'd been looking for someplace to rent as long as I have, you'd know what that meant.”

“What do you mean?”

“Apt. Don't you read the classifieds? Apt equals apartment.”

Apartment. And whenever Jill mentioned “apartment”, she meant one apartment in particular. Willey's apartment
.

Fred and Sheila stared at me. Fred ventured, “Are you okay? You look kind of glassy if you don't mind my saying so.”

I coughed, and nodded. “I guess I do feel a little logie.”

“Hope you haven't stopped a dose of the Sichuan ‘flu,” Sheila remarked. “My cousin had it, said it was like being hit by a truck.”

She suddenly realized what she had said. Everybody in the office knew how Robbie had died. “Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. “That was truly dumb.” But I was too busy thinking about Jill round at Willey's apartment to care.

It was still raining; a steady drenching drizzle; but I went out all the same. All right, I told myself, I'm suspicious. I have no justification; I have no evidence; and most of all I have no moral right. Jill made a solemn promise when she married me; to have and to hold, from this day forth.

A promise was a promise, and it wasn't up to me to police her comings and goings, in order to make sure that she kept it.

Yet here I was, standing on the corner of Central Park South and the Avenue of the Americas, the shoulders of my Burberry dark with rain, waiting for Jill to emerge from her apartment building, so that I could prove that she was cheating on me.

I waited over half an hour. Then, quite suddenly, Jill appeared, in the company of a tall dark-haired man in a blue raincoat. Jill immediately hailed a passing taxi, and climbed into it, but the man began to walk at a brisk pace toward Columbus Circle, turning his collar up as he did so.

I hesitated for a moment, and then I went after him.

He turned south on Seventh Avenue, still walking fast. The sidewalks were crowded, and I had a hard time keeping up with him. He crossed 57th St just as the lights changed, and I found myself dodging buses and taxis and trying not to lose sight of him at the same time. At last, a few yards short of Broadway, I caught up with him. I snatched at his sleeve and said, “Hey, fellow. Pardon me.”

He turned to stare at me. He was olive-skinned, almost Italian-looking. Quite handsome if you had a taste for Latins.

He said nothing, but turned away again. He must have thought that I was excusing myself for having accidentally caught at his raincoat. I grabbed him again, and said, “Hey! Pardon me! I want to talk to you!”

He stopped. “What is this?” he demanded. “Are you hustling me, or what?”

“Jill Deacon,” I replied, my voice shaking a little.

“What?” he frowned.

“You know what I'm talking about,” I replied. “I'm her husband.”

“So? Congratulations.”

“You were with her just now.”

The man smiled in exasperation. “I said hallo to her in the lobby, if that's what you mean.”

“You know her?”

“Well, sure. I live along the hall. I've known her ever since she moved in. We say good morning and good evening in the lobby, and that's it.”

He was telling the truth. I knew damn well he was telling the truth. Nobody stands there smiling at you at a busy intersection in the pouring rain and tells you lies.

“I'm sorry,” I told him. “I guess it was a case of mistaken identity.”

“Take some advice, fellow,” the man replied. “Lighten up a bit, you know?”

I went back to the office feeling small and neurotic and jerkish; like a humorless Woody Allen. I sat at my desk staring at a heap of unpaid accounts and Fred and Sheila left me very well alone. At four o'clock I gave up, and left, and took a cab down to the Bells of Hell for a drink.

“You look like shit,” Norman told me.

I nodded in agreement. “Alien trouble,” I replied.

Maybe my suspicions about the Latin-looking man had been unfounded, but Jill remained irritable and remote, and there was no doubt that something had come adrift in our marriage, although I couldn't quite work out what.

We didn't make love all week. When I tried to put my arm around her in bed, she sighed testily and squirmed away. And whenever I tried to talk to her about it, she went blank or scratchy or both.

She came home well after ten o'clock on Friday evening without any explanation about why she was late. When I asked her if everything was all right, she said she was tired, and to leave her alone. She showered and went straight to bed; and when I looked in at the bedroom door only twenty minutes later, she was fast asleep.

I went to the bathroom and wearily stripped off my shirt. In the laundry basket lay Jill's discarded panties. I hesitated for a moment, then I picked them out and
held them up. They were still soaked with another man's semen.

I suppose I could have been angry. I could have dragged her out of bed and slapped her around and shouted at her. But what was the use? I went into the sitting-room and poured myself a large glass of Chablis and sat disconsolately watching Jackie Gleason with the volume turned down.
The Honeymooners
, blurred with tears.

Maybe the simple truth was that she had married me because I was Robbie's brother; because she had hoped in some distracted and irrational way that I would somehow become the husband she had lost. I knew that she had been nuts about him, I mean truly nuts. Maybe she hadn't really gotten over the shock. Robbie would live for ever; at least as far as Jill was concerned.

Maybe she was punishing me now for not being him. Or maybe she was punishing
him
for dying.

Whatever the reason, she was cheating on me, without making any serious effort to hide it. She might just as well have invited her lover into our bed with us.

There was no question about it: our marriage was over, even before it had started. I sat in front of the television with the tears streaming down my cheeks and I felt like curling myself up into a ball and going to sleep and never waking up.

You can't cry for ever, however; and after about an hour of utter misery I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and finished my glass of wine and thought: right, okay. I'm not giving Jill up without a fight. I'm going to find out who this bum is who she's been sleeping with, and I'm going to confront him, face to face. She can choose between him and me, but she's going to have to do it right out in front of us, no sneaking, no hiding, no hypocrisy.

I went to the bedroom and opened the door and Jill was lying asleep with her mouth slightly parted. She was
still beautiful. I still loved her. And the pain of still loving her twisted inside me like a corkscrew.

I hope you live for ever, I thought to myself. I hope you live to know how much you've hurt me. Immortooty, immortaty. Ever, ever, after.

On the dressing-table her key ring lay sprawled. I looked at it for a long moment, then quietly picked it up.

Next day it was windy and bright. I sat in the coffee shop opposite Jill's agency building, drinking too much coffee and trying to chew a bagel that tasted of nothing but cream cheese and bitterness. At a few minutes after twelve, I saw Jill march smartly out of the front of the building, and lift her arm to call a taxi. Immediately I ducked out of the coffee shop, and called another taxi.

“Follow that cab,” I told the driver. He was a thin Puerto Rican boy with beads round his neck and a black straggly mustache.

“Wheesh cab?” he wanted to know.

“That Checker, follow that Checker.”

“You thin this some kinda movie or somethin? I aint follnin nuttn.”

I pushed a crumpled-up fifty into his hand. “Just follow that Checker, okay?”

“Whatever you say man. Your fewnral.”

As it turned out, I paid fifty dollars plus the fare to follow Jill back to Willey's apartment on Central Park South, where I should have known she was going anyway. The Puerto Rican boy saw Jill climb out of the cab ahead of us. Those long black-stockinged legs, that smart black-and-white suit. “Hey man she's
worth
fifty, that one. She's worth a hundud.”

Jill walked without hesitation into the apartment building. I allowed her five clear minutes, pacing up and down on the sidewalk, watched with stony-eyed curiosity by an old man selling balloons. Then I went into
the building after her, through the lobby to the elevators.

“You're looking for somebody, sir?” the black doorman wanted to know.

“My wife, Mrs Deacon. She arrived here just a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, sure,” the doorman nodded. “You go on up.”

I went upward in the small gold-mirrored elevator with my heart beating against my ribcage like a fist. I could see my reflection, and the strange thing was that I looked quite normal. Pale-faced, tired, but quite rational. I certainly didn't look like a husband trying to surprise his wife
in flagrante
with another man. But then who does? People die with the strangest expressions on their faces. Smiles, scowls, looks of total surprise.

I reached the third floor and stepped out. The corridor was overheated and silent and smelled of lavender polish. I hesitated for a moment, holding the doors of the elevator open. Then I let them go; and they closed with a whine, and the elevator carried on upward.

What the hell am I going to say, if I actually find her with somebody?
I thought to myself.
Supposing they turn around and laugh at me, what can I possibly do then?

Reason told me that I should walk away – that if I was sure that Jill was cheating on me, I should call a lawyer and arrange a divorce. But it wasn't as simple as that. My ego was large enough to want to see what dazzling hero could possibly have attracted Jill away from me, after such a short marriage. Such a passionate marriage, too. If I was lacking in any way, I wanted to know why.

I reached the door with the name-card which read
Willey
. I pressed my ear against the door and listened; and after a moment or two I was sure that I could hear voices. Jill's, high-pitched, pleading. And a deeper voice; a man's voice. The voice of her lover, no less.

I took out the extra key which they had made for me
at American Key & Lock the previous evening. I licked my lips, and took a deep breath, and then I slid it into the door. I turned it, and the door opened.

You can still go back. You don't have to face this if you don't want to
. But I knew that it was too late; and that my curiosity was overwhelming.

I quietly closed the door behind me and stood in the hallway listening. On the wall beside me were framed Deccan paintings of the 18th century, showing women having intercourse with stallions. Highly appropriate, I thought. And sickening, too. Maybe Jill
was
having an affair with Willey, after all. He seemed to have a pretty libidinous turn of mind.