“What say we finish these and then whiz over to my place. It’s just down on Worple Road.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” May said. “North Americans are supposed to be fast.”
Corey Keith believed he knew all about women, married ones especially. The Hartfield Dramatic Society had a few female members in their forties, fading but still serviceable ladies whose husbands, for some reason, preferred not to know anything about their world of the theater. During his couple of years backstage, Corey had worked his way through these grass widows and found them satisfying, taken in limited seasons not exceeding three months. But May Stanstead was something else. He was cynical enough to appreciate that there was a histrionic side to her lovemaking, but even so...
He got out of bed and prepared coffee when she refused another drink. They sat propped up under a blanket and sipped the hot drink, eating the chocolate digestive biscuits he provided on two plates, everything apportioned evenly, the way he and his big sister used to share food back in Baytown. Corey used to lie in his room in a position that allowed him to look through both open doorways to watch his sister get undressed. She knew it too and never tried to move from his line of sight. Fortunately, she never told his mother — the old lady probably would have killed him.
May brushed crumbs from the sheet. “I’m wrecking your bed.”
“And now,” he said, “may I have the envelope for the best performance by a concubine?”
She took it as a compliment — which it was, for the most part. “You were incredible,” she said. “Wow.”
As they both dressed, Corey watched her. Her underwear was expensive stuff, the best he had ever seen. One of the off-putting things about the Dramatic Society ladies was their tragic “knickers,” as they called them. But this woman looked like an illustration from a glossy magazine. Something, at last, was going overpoweringly right for Corey Keith.
“When am I going to see you again?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I have a very possessive husband. Possessive and jealous.”
“I don’t blame him one bit. But he isn’t with us today. So why can’t we work it again?”
“It’s very’ complicated.” She stood facing him, all buttoned up, the suede collar displaying her clever face. Neat girl, busy girl. “You’d better ring me.”
He wrote down the number she gave him and agreed to call only at the specified time. Then he tried to kiss her goodbye and had to settle for a departing cheek.
By the time he was cleared to telephone two days later Corey wanted May Stanstead so badly he was ready to do the proverbial naked crawl across acres of broken glass in dead of winter. She sounded on the phone as if she felt the same way. Unfortunately, she could not come to him. Her husband was out but he would be ringing her about something and she would have to be on hand. Would Corey like to come up the hill to the Village and see her for an hour? Do sharks like something to eat?
He jotted down the address, went outside, caught a 93 bus at the foot of the hill, and ten minutes later was at the door of an impressive house on South Side Common. May opened the door and drew him inside quickly. Something was wrong. She kissed him and he could feel the tension.
“Jason just telephoned. He’ll be back sooner than I expected. You’ll have to be ready to run.”
Corey struggled with his disappointment. “Well, as Lord Nelson said at Trafalgar, ‘Fleet, don’t fail me now.’ ”
“I’m sorry. Come in. There’s time for a drink.”
“I can get a drink on the high street. I didn’t come for a drink.”
“I know.” She pressed herself against him. “You poor thing — are you going to be all right?”
“I’ll live.” He followed her into a small library with an open fireplace burning wood. There were walls of books, maroon leather chairs, a Jacobean table. The place smelled and looked so fine Corey felt a strong attack of worthlessness. She gave him a drink. It was Scotch, which he hated, but he sipped it humbly without a word. She was in charge here.
“This is a very difficult situation, darling,” she said. “And it isn’t going to get any easier.”
Corey finished his drink, set down the glass, and put both hands in his pockets. His fingertips burned from a recent scrubbing. “We’ll have to meet down the hill,” he said.
“No, no, my love, no.” She came to him and stood with her wrists resting on his shoulders, her face turned up to his. The pleading expression was that of the classic heroine trying to reason with her animal man. “I’ve been with you once, Corey Keith — just once — and that was enough to show me that I can never go back to Jason. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I guess I do.”
“I hope you do.” She turned away and walked to the window where she became a slender silhouette in her tailored velvet suit. “Because I am about to commit myself to a terrible decision.”
“You’d be crazy to divorce him for me. I only made three thousand quid last year, and half the time I’m on the dole.”
“I’m not talking about divorce. Jason would never consider it. And I agree with you — it would be crazy to throw away all this comfort.” She turned to face him. “But we can have it both ways.”
He wasn’t stupid. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not. If something happened to Jason Hughes-Price, the noted television director, then Mrs. Hughes-Price, otherwise known as May Stanstead, would inherit this house and quite a lot of money. And she could settle down, after a not very respectable period of time, with the young man who knows how to make her feel very, very happy.”
“You’ve got the wrong person, May.” Corey sat down and waited while she refilled his glass. The Scotch was acceptable this time. “I paint rooms and move scenery. I’m not a hit man.”
She knelt beside him. “I know you better than you know yourself. That’s one thing. The other thing is, we don’t need a hit man. Jason is so habit-ridden that killing him would be simple. I’ve thought of a way.”
“I’m not sure I want to know.” But he spoke too faintly, his mind clouded by the whisky and the sound of her voice and by his body’s recollection of what had happened between them in the room on Worple Road. She began to explain her idea, leading him through the house by the hand.
It would happen on a Wednesday night. Jason always left the cast reading of the new script at 9:15 in order to be home in time to see Mid-Week Football on the telly. He was a fanatic. Sometimes May came with him, sometimes she had a drink with the other performers. On the proposed night she would stay behind.
In the kitchen, she demonstrated the faulty latch on the door to the back porch. “I’ve been after Jason to have new locks put on. There have been several robberies this winter in the Village.” She showed how an intruder could force his way in, breaking the flimsy lock. She led Corey back to the library and indicated where he could stand just inside the doorway.
“When Jason comes in, all you do is hit him once with this.” She lifted the heavy poker from its place beside the fire.
“I couldn’t do it, May.”
“It’s foolproof. Nobody would ever connect you with this place. You’ll wear gloves, so there’ll be no fingerprints. You can have the silver out so it looks as if Jason came in and caught you at it. Another local robbery — only this time the villain panicked.” She watched his face for a few moments. “I guess you don’t want us to continue as much as I do.”
“I want that. But your husband — I don’t even know him.”
“If you did, you wouldn’t hesitate. He’s a dreadful man, you’ve no idea. I could tell you things—”