CHAPTER 2

It was already after seven o'clock. Angie was nearly an hour late. The rice was cold and the chow mein mushy.

It was not like Angie to be late without calling. She was usually very good about such things. For the twentieth time Carolyn glanced at her watch. She sighed and moved the pot off the burner, went back into the livingroom and tried not to listen for the phone.

With a Kleenex she wiped out ashtrays, skimmed a layer of soot off the window sill. She put a candy dish back where she'd moved it from a few minutes before. Then she went to the table and touched her fingertips to the half dozen red roses she'd brought for Angie.

Six red roses. One for each month.

She felt her throat tighten in a spasm of sentimentality. Ordinarily she would have considered the sensation a sign of weakness. A thirty-year-old woman should surely know better, even if she were in love for the first time. Carolyn was aware that she had lost all sense of perspective where Angie was concerned. But tonight she did not care.

She turned her back on the roses and stood for a moment contemplating her domain. Before she met Angela Simpers, that wonderful day in the Museum of Modern Art, Carolyn had lived in a dark and bug-infested apartment with second-hand furniture and a leaky john and she had called herself an old maid at twenty-nine. Then Angie had whispered, "I love you," and Carolyn had bloomed. She was a career girl now, with a new job and an expensive three-room apartment and a tiny Renault to run around in. And she was proud. The ceramic lamps and the couch and the sailcloth sling chairs were not the best. But they were hers and they were paid for. And she was proud of the home she had made for the girl she loved.

Yet she realized that all she had done was not enough. It was never enough.

Carolyn stared glumly at the stack of rock-and-roll records, the piles of paperback novels, the shoddy yellow curtains blaring out the discontent and lack of harmony that raged through Angie.

And the roses, those foolish red roses. What good could they possibly do?

The phone rang shrilly in the bedroom and Carolyn listened to it for several minutes without even realizing what it was. She was looking at the flowers again, feeling wretched, wondering if Angie could ever forget what had happened between them that morning.

The phone had stopped ringing by the time she reached it, yet she picked up the receiver and pressed it to her ear.

For a long while she listened to the steady hum of the dial tone.

She put the receiver back gently and sat slumped on the edge of the bed with Bridgit's head on her knee. It wasn't that Angie didn't love her. She honestly believed that Angie did. It was just that the girl had suffered so when she was a child. She had been in London during the blitz, after all. Her parents were still there. And she was so young, only twenty-three, and alone and homesick. Well, nearly alone, anyway. And—

Carolyn ran quickly through the list of rationalizations she always applied to Angie and knew, as she always knew, that she did not really understand. Not that it made any difference. She belonged to Angie completely and believed she always would.

There had been nothing in her life before Angie that really counted. She realized that now. Angie had given meaning to everything. She lived in constant fear that she might lose the girl. No matter what she did to please her, Angie remained discontented. Carolyn could not bear to think what might become of her if Angie found someone else.

Carolyn knew that for herself there could never be another like Angie. There might be other loves in her life, but they would not be the same. Something about the girl set her on fire, just looking at her, just touching her. She had never felt that way before about anybody. She didn't believe she could again.

It didn't matter what the girl did, really. Or what she was. They loved each other and that took care of everything.

Almost.

She became impatient with thinking about it and shoved herself up off the bed, displacing Bridgit, who scooted into the closet.

Slowly, she began collecting the debris of Angie's turbulent getting-ready-for-work passage through the room.

Panties with torn lace, a bra without a hook, lipstick smeared tissues, a piece of blue ribbon, bobby pins and combs and a dirty powder puff, on the bed, on the floor and chairs. She returned everything neatly to where it belonged.

Then she made the bed.

When she heard Angie's key in the lock, she steadied herself into an air of nonchalance and stepped out into the hall.

She heard Angie say, "It's not elegant, but we like it," speaking slowly and with trained precision.

Angie's voice was the one thing about her that Carolyn would have changed. Neither too high nor too low, it simply did not sound sincere. And her pronunciation was strange. The girl had worked hard to oust the Shoreditch Cockney from her accent, and she had, but with the peculiar result of sounding like a Bronx fishwife who had visited England briefly. And to compound the confusion, she had a speech defect that made an r come out as w. She called her friend Cawol. And when annoyed, as she was now on turning to find Carolyn watching her, it sounded like Cow.

Carolyn heard the anger in Angie's voice and stopped short. Angie pushed her leather purse into Carolyn's hands and walked on past her.

The young man Angie left behind in the hallway winked at Carolyn, then shrugged. He was tall, thick muscled and nearly as wide as the door he leaned against. His white shirt was buttoned to the neck and he wore a blue and red striped tie. His sleeves were rolled up and, when he reached out to shake Carolyn’s hand, the roll was too tight across the muscle.

"That's Jimmy Turner," Angie called from the livingroom. "And Carol."

His face was homely, open and friendly. As she studied it, Carolyn could find no real reason not to like him. Yet she knew instinctively that Jimmy would neither understand nor respect the relationship she had with Angie and the smile she gave him was merely courteous.

She turned, went back to the livingroom and dropped the purse on the coffee table. Angie had already opened the phonograph and now squatted beside the bookcase, flipping through albums.

"Sit down," Carolyn said to Jimmy, gesturing without interest toward the couch. She went to stand with her back to the windows and waited curiously for someone to do something.

Jimmy sat on the edge of the couch and let his hands dangle between his knees. He watched Angie and waited, too.

Angie dropped a dozen records on the machine. Something loud and bouncy began to play.

She stood up and backed away from the phonograph, clicking the fingers of one hand, then the other. Her body began to sway, stomach twisting slowly, hips swivelling, till all of her was in motion. She closed her eyes and tilted her head to let the long blonde hair fall freely down her back. Her hands caressed her hips, her thighs.

Carolyn sat on the radiator with her hands under her, fingers tightly gripping the edge of the metal cover. She was too warm, too aroused to move. Yet she felt sick to her stomach and recognized it as quite a different thing from what she usually felt when she watched Angie dance. The girl had a beautiful body, feminine and healthy, soft yet firm in all the right places. And she was a good dancer, responding with her entire body and maybe her soul to the beat of the music.

Carolyn glanced beyond the swaying body to the expression on Jimmy's face. The girl's movements no longer seemed graceful and sensuous, but calculated and obscene. She wondered what Angie was trying to do.

Jimmy obviously was fascinated by the girl. Carolyn could see the beads of perspiration above his eyebrows and on the bridge of his nose. She understood very well what he was feeling. Always before, she had felt prickles of desire, watching the girl dance. She couldn't blame Jimmy for his reaction to the spectacle. But she could certainly blame Angie.

He leaned forward till he was sitting almost on air. His eyes narrowed.

Carolyn glanced from Jimmy to Angie's glowing face. Angie was openly aware of the effect she was having on Jimmy and she appeared to enjoy it. And then Carolyn understood what Angie was out to do. She was getting even, punishing Carolyn for having wanted her, for having dared to love her. She felt sick with the shame of it. Yet she could not look away. She had to watch Angie in action, destroying them all.

Angie whirled and put out one hand to Jimmy. "Come dance with me," she said, and she moved in close to him as he stood up.

They looked good together. Too good. His dark bulk dwarfed the blonde petiteness of her, seeming to surround and engulf her until she became a part of him.

Observing them, Carolyn knew they had often danced like this before. She thought of her own clumsy efforts to guide the girl around a dance floor, smiled and shook her head sadly.

As calmly as she could, Carolyn left her perch and walked past them to the phonograph. She turned down the volume and went on out to the kitchen.

She put up a fresh pot of water to boil and got out the box of rice. Then she turned on the heat under the chow mein. She managed to keep herself busy for fifteen minutes, even pretending not to notice that the music grew louder. She grabbed a handful of silver and went to set the table.

They were still moving together in time to the music, not as close as they had been, but close enough and still oblivious to her. She watched Jimmy's hand work in a narrowing circle on Angie's behind.

As she came closer, Carolyn cleared her throat. She looked straight into Jimmy's eyes. "You'll stay for dinner, won't you?"

Angie turned to blink at Carolyn over her shoulder and the expression on her face told Carolyn to go away somewhere and hide. "We had dinner out," she said.

"But I've already got it cooked," Carolyn blurted. "You might at least have—"

"Oh, Carol, for heavens sake! Save it for tomorrow or something."

Angie turned her attention to Jimmy, ready to continue the dance.

He put his big hands on Angie's shoulders and held her at arms' length. "Take it easy," he said. "We're not being very polite."

Carolyn almost thanked him. Then she realized that he was being only polite. That he considered her the roommate who did the cooking and felt sorry her dinner had been spoiled.

Jimmy stepped away from Angie and cocked his head to smile down at Carolyn. "I'm real sorry," he said. "Angela thought you wouldn't be home."

Carolyn glanced accusingly at Angie and saw the girl flush a deep, angry red. She waited patiently for Angie to explain.

"It's Friday," Angie said. Her lower lip pushed itself into a pout. "You go home to your family every Friday for dinner."

Carolyn gazed at her levelly. "But this Friday is special," she said. "You should have known I wouldn't go tonight, Angie."

For a moment Angle simply frowned at her. Then the frown disappeared and something Carolyn could not define and did not like the looks of took its place. When Angie spoke, her tone was impatient. "We'll talk about it later,"

she said. "I want to be with Jimmy for a while." She went to the phonograph and switched it off.

Appreciating that she had been dismissed, Carolyn decided not to argue the point in front of a stranger.

Still clutching the silverware, she stalked back to the kitchen and turned off the stove. She put away the settings and fixed herself a plate of chow mein, then changed her mind and emptied both the pot and the plate into the garbage.

The door of the liquor cabinet clicked open. She heard the hollow thud of bottles against wood. A few seconds later Angie stood behind her in the doorway.

"We're having a drink," she said unnecessarily. "I need some ice."

Carolyn moved aside to make room at the sink. She watched Angie empty ice cubes into a bowl and set the bowl on a tray with some glasses. "Angie," she said softly, "please say something to me."

Angie whirled on her. Her eyes were icy and contemptuous, yet somehow wary and afraid. She stared at Carolyn for a long time before her features relaxed and her eyes softened and smiled.

She reached out, grabbed Carolyn's hand and squeezed it hard. "It's all right," she whispered. "I'll send him home early."

"Who is he?" Carolyn demanded.

Angie smiled. "Just an old friend," she said. "Nobody important."

Then she was gone and Carolyn was left to tidy up the mess she had made of the sink.

When she had finished in the kitchen, Carolyn went into the bedroom and shut the door. She sat at her desk near the windows, pulled open a drawer and began to rearrange the contents.

It was what she always did when Angie upset her: retreated, sat, rearranged. She remembered all too clearly the first time she and Angie had disagreed. Like all their arguments, it had started over something stupid, she didn't remember what. It wasn't the cause that had impressed her. It was the tantrum Angie had thrown. That time she had smashed the dishes, almost all of the new set that had cost Carolyn a small fortune. Carolyn had been shocked, completely unprepared by experience to cope with the girl. She had tried to joke her out of it then and Angie had only gotten more upset. She had retaliated by kicking Bridgit till the cat threw up.

But that had been mild compared with what followed. Little things at first calculated to get back at Carolyn every time she stepped out of line. Half a dozen tranquillizers that left Angie groggy and ill. Starving Bridgit for a whole weekend the only time Carolyn dared visit her parents overnight. Then the real dilly, the night Carolyn complained because Angie wouldn't tell her where she had been until three in the morning. Angie had climbed out on the fire escape in high heels. She had stayed there for hours, shivering in the cold, screaming, threatening to jump.

Carolyn sighed. She thumbed through notebooks, put loose stamps into an envelope, tore up scraps of paper, sharpened a couple of pencils.

She had never been able to say that life with Angie was dull. But, after Angie had taken an almost fatal dose of sleeping pills, she had had enough excitement. Since then, she hadn't fought back. She had let Angie have her way, no matter what it was. When trouble started, she retreated, just as she had done tonight. She was almost used to it by now.

The hot July night drifted in through the open windows, bringing with it snatches of kids shouting and honking horns, of Jimmy's big, full voice and of Angie's happy laugh. Angie did not laugh often. It was even more unusual that she was happy.

Carolyn set an electric fan beside her on the desk and turned it on high. For a while she watched the spinning blades and let herself be hypnotized by the blurred movement and by its steady whirr. Then she leaned toward a drawer and puttered again.

She found that she could not concentrate on anything except Angie and the "old friend who was nobody important".

She knew very little of Angie's past, except for things like London and the blitz. Those were the things Angie talked about and it had seemed enough. She wondered now where Jimmy fit in. And why.

After a while she switched off the fan and listened for the sound of voices from the other room. They were talking quietly together now, their voices murmuring softly like wind over waves.

She bit her lip and pressed her forehead hard against her fists.

The perfect end to a happy anniversary. Six red roses and an old, old friend. What a laugh!

She threw herself face downward on the bed. She clutched the pillow with her fists and pulled it over her ears.

Carolyn didn't remember falling asleep but when she sat up again, the sky outside was dark and there was a touch of dampness in the air. She listened, straining in the darkened room, hearing nothing but the sound of her own breathing and the muted hum of the city at night.

She stood inside the bedroom door with her ear pressed to the wood, not really wanting to spy on Angie, yet feeling morbid and suspicious and afraid.

She gripped the knob in one hand and turned it slowly.

You're a damned fool, she thought . If you love her, trust her. I f you trust her…

She opened the door with a flourish and walked noisily across the hall. At the livingroom, she stopped dead still on the threshold.

Jimmy was gone. And so was Angie.

That hadn't occurred to her. She stood there with an inane smile on her face and waited for the fact to sink in. She looked at the bottles and the empty glasses, at the roses and the big empty room.

She sighed then and shrugged. She felt very tired and her shoulders slumped a little as she put the bottles away in the cabinet and set the glasses back on the tray.