This Tuesday four days after Brands party was, in some respects, no different than most of our outings. Once the waitress had brought us our drinks and taken our orders, Patricia spread the Times across the table.
"Have you been following Dr. Spock's trial? They've selected an all-male jury."
I caught her cocktail glass barely in time to keep it from toppling; cloudy drops stained the newsprint. She brushed the liquid away and went on. "It's simply shocking, isn't it? Him egging boys on to dodge the draft."
"I wish you'd wear your glasses, dear. You're terrifically clumsy without them."
"Oh, thank you very much I'm sure!" She turned to the inner pages and sat up a little straighter, studying the ink-sketched advertisements. "I knew we shouldn't have skipped Jaeger today. They're having a big spring sale. Listen to this. 'Nostalgic Mists of Organza Silk. Cafr-au-lait, gentle grey, glade green.' Look at the cut of this dress. Perhaps we should have Rufus drop us by there on the way back."
I sighed and ran a finger slowly around the rim of my glass. It made a tone like a flute or a bell; I stopped, embarrassed, and folded my hands in my lap. "I'm all shopped out."
"You? Impossible. Besides, the glade green sounds perfect for you."
"I'm just not in the mood."
She folded up the paper with a sigh of mild exasperation and looked at me. "What's the matter with you? You haven't been yourself all day."
The waitress brought our lunches. I leaned my chin on my knuckles, poked at my salad, and said nothing for a moment. Tears gathered in my eyes.
"He's having an affair. I'm sure of it. With that horrid Marilyn Monroe."
Her thoughtful nod told me she'd already known.
"Everyone knows, don't they?"
She nodded again, looking uncomfortable. "He's not making much of a secret of it, I'm afraid. Several people saw them leaving Tuxedo Park together yesterday. She met him there after the golf game."
My throat got tight and tears spilled down my cheeks. She took my hand and made several false starts.
"Look," she said finally, "he's swinging a bit, that's all. Free love, you know?"
"You're the one who told me to keep him under lock and key."
"And you were the one who said he'd never go for her." At my hurt glance, Patricia grimaced. "What I mean is that it's a little late to lock him up now. Why not let it run its course?"
"Thanks for the understanding."
"I mean it. She won't be in town long."
I shook my head, miserable, took my hand back. "This isn't just a fling. He's in love with her."
"You're exaggerating."
"I'm sure of it." I bailed my napkin up, shook my head. A tear ran down my cheek. "He came home Sunday night smelling of her perfume and last night he didn't even come home. And with her, of all people. Damn him."
More tears came. Patricia shushed me, looking around. The couple two booths down stared; I pointedly stared back till they looked away.
In a lowered voice I said, "He can't treat me this way."
"There's not much you can do, though. Really."
I was silent a moment, eyes downcast. Not because I didn't know how to respond or because I didn't know what I wanted; I'd given it plenty of thought. I hesitated because if I said what was on my mind it would be made too real.
But when I looked up, Patricia read my intent. "You know you can't. How would you survive?"
"I have my trust fund."
"That only gives you ten thousand a year! You'd live like a pauper, you'd have to get a job. And doing What?"
"I'll find something."
"What about Clara? You can't deprive her that way." She grabbed my hands again and held them. "Don't do something in haste you'll regret later. Brandon, you know, he's a fine catch. He'll probably be general counsel for Morgan Stanley someday. You'll have everything you ever dreamed of if you just stick it out."
I pulled my hands loose. "How can you say that? You know how miserable I've been. He doesn't care about me. I'm just an ornament on his arm. A hostess for his parties."
"It beats not having anyone." She paused, thinking. "Besides, Brandon will fight it. And he's a lawyer. They know all the tricks and they close ranks. You'll never win. At the very least he'd get custody of Clara."
Patricia must not have realized what was happening with me right then. Though the word "divorce" had never been uttered, the subject of how miserable I was with Brand had always been a favorite topic. Always before her arguments had supported nicely my reluctance to act.
This time was different. This time he was in love, with something other than his dreams and ambitions. The pain was clarifying my thinking; this time I'd been pushed past my limits. And I knew what to do.
"I want the phone and address of your cousin Franklin. And I want your promise to say nothing about this, to anyone."
She didn't answer, merely looked distressed.
"Please promise me," I repeated.
"Franky doesn't do divorce investigations. He's not much more than a document hound for city councillors' aides."
"I want someone I can trust not to talk to Brand. Someone not connected in any way to Douglas, Mannerly."
"You're making a mistake."
"I'll call you when I get home. Have the information ready, all right?"
She bit her lip, looking forlorn. "I can't. George will kill me if he finds out I helped you find a PI to incriminate Brandon."
I shook my head. "Your name need never come into this. I'll tell Brand I had the information from the Yellow Pages, or something. In fact, if you won't help me I'll get the information that way anyhow, so you might as well help me. I promise I'll never tell."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She sighed, and lifted her eyebrows in a shrug. "I still say you're making a big mistake. But OK."
I got the number, all right. I must have dialled it six times over the next day. And hung up before the first ring, each time.
Brand got home after eleven, smelling of perfume and sweat. We barely spoke a word to each other. Wednesday morning I feigned a headache to escape an excruciating breakfast.
That night he came home at his usual time, and after dinner he played with Clara for a while. Then he retreated to his office.
The photographs from his party had arrived in the mail that day. Clara had been pestering me for a snapshot of Papa for her scrap book; I had promised Clara a photo of Brand from his promotion party. But when I went through them after dinner, most of the ones with recognizable shots of Brand had Marilyn in them as well.
Seeing them made me behave rather terribly to Clara. I shut the photos up in the rolltop desk, snapped at her when she asked for her photo, and put her to bed without a story. Which made Clara cry, which made Brandon spank her. Poor little dear.
So I sneaked in and rocked her till she stopped crying and promised her a better photo of Papa than those nasty old photos from the party. We'd take a snapshot of him for Father's Day in a couple of weeks. She seemed comforted; she stuck her thumb into her mouth and fell asleep in my arms.
Then I listened in on Brand's phone calls from the bedroom extension.
"Brandy." I'd have recognized the voice anywhere; I'd heard it in dozens of movies. "I've missed you terribly today."
"My darling." His voice quavered, for heaven's sake. I thought I'd be sick.
"Can you get away tonight?"
"No. She's getting suspicious."
"Poor woman. I feel bad for her."
"Don't bother. She's a bitch. Shallow and stupid."
"I wish you wouldn't talk that way about her, dearest. It makes me feel bad."
"Believe me, she won't care about us. All she cares about is whether I have enough money and power to keep her in designer clothes and the right social circles."