“Anyway, the other picture was about a reunion of a basketball team. Robert Mitchum was in it, too, didn’t you see it?”
“No.”
“He played the coach.”
She wondered if she could make him hard again without even touching him. Just sit here across from him and get him hard. She decided it might be worth a try.
“Anyway, Sorvino’s talking to one of the other, players about something, I forget what, and he says something like ‘You know the only woman I ever loved? My mother. Fuck Freud!’”
She burst out laughing. Nodding in appreciation, Andrew began laughing, too. Their laughter trailed at last. He nodded again and sipped at his martini. She sipped at her Scotch and then shifted her position slightly on the couch, allowing the robe to fall partially open over her breasts.
“Is it possible we could send out for something to eat later?” she asked.
“Sure, are you hungry?”
“Well, later. Let’s finish the drinks first,” she said, and gestured with her glass.
“There are lots of good restaurants in the neighborhood,” he said. “But I didn’t think you’d want to go out.”
“No, I don’t think we should.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“No,” she said, and slipped her legs out from under her and then leaned over to put her glass on the coffee table. The robe opened wider over her breasts. She could feel his eyes on her. She pulled the robe closed, crossed her legs, leaned back.
“So how’d you describe me?” she asked.
He looked at her, puzzled.
“To Billy.”
“Oh.”
“The driver.”
“I told him your name was Mrs. Welles, and I said you were a tall, beautiful blonde,”
“Do you really think I’m tall?”
“Yes.”
“How tall do you think I am?” she asked, and leaned over to retrieve her drink again, giving him a good long look at her naked breasts, and then sitting up again all oblivious and innocent.
“Five-ten,” he said.
“I’m five-eight.”
How’re we doing under that robe? she wondered. That thing getting hard for me again?
“You look taller,” he said.
“I give that impression,” she said, and uncrossed her legs. “Did you mean the part about the beautiful blonde?”
“I meant it.”
“What else did you say about me?”
“That’s all I said.”
“Did you describe my breasts to him?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t you like my breasts?” she asked.
“I love your breasts.”
“Then why didn’t you describe them to him?”
The thought of him describing her breasts to another man was making her wet again.
He said nothing.
“Did you think that might excite him?” she asked. “Describing my breasts?”
“It might have.”
“Or my nipples?” she said, and opened the robe in a wide V over her breasts. “Do you like my nipples?”
“Yes.”
“Can you see how hard they are?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like my legs?” she said, and stretched them out in front of her, pointing the toes, pulling the robe up to her knees. “Did you describe my legs to him?”
“No.”
“No, you don’t like my legs?”
“I love your legs. No, I didn’t describe them to him.”
“Did you tell him I’m a natural blonde?” she said, and pulled the robe back and spread herself to him.
“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” he asked.
“What am I doing to you?”
“What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to excite you.”
“You’re exciting me. You’re the most exciting woman I’ve ever...”
“Get you hard again,” she whispered.
“I am hard.”
“Get you to put that big hard cock in me again.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Now,” she said. “Get you to fuck me again now!”
He rose and came to her. Her eyes flicked the hardness of him under the thin cotton robe. He unbelted the robe, let it fall open, reached out with his right hand to cup her chin. His left hand brushed her hair behind her ear. His right thumb parted her lips.
“Yes,” she said, “that, too.”
She hated shopping on Saturday, she hated shopping with Mollie, and she hated shopping with Heather. The weather was rotten, too. It had been rotten ever since Thursday morning, when she’d awakened with thoughts of Andrew in her mind and sounds of Michael in the bathroom. She’d thought at once that she’d overslept, but instead he’d awakened early. It was snowing outside, she wondered if they’d declare a snow day. If so, she wondered if she should call Andrew, tell him she’d be there as soon as — but no, a snow day would give her daughter the day off, too. Anyway, the snow tapered by nine and ended by noon, leaving behind a slushy residue that froze solid that night when the temperature dropped to twenty-two degrees. For the past two days now, it had hovered just above the single-digit mark, fourteen degrees yesterday, twelve this morning.
Mollie wanted the new sneakers every other kid in school was wearing. Something about a disc instead of laces, who knew, who cared? Heather was looking for something that would make her look young and exciting again. Thirty-two years old, she wanted to look young again. Sarah felt as if she were merely along for the bumpy ride. They had already hit Bloomie’s in vain, and were now trudging along a Fifth Avenue thronged with Japanese tourists and all blustery with winds that seemed raging directly from the Arctic. Sarah’s cheeks were raw and cold, and her lips were chapped, and her nose was dripping and she was thinking she’d rather be reading a book on a miserable Saturday like this one. Or actually, she realized in an instant, what she’d really rather be doing was—
“Where does Uncle Doug live now?” Mollie asked.
“I don’t know,” Heather said.
“With the bimbo?” Mollie asked.
“I don’t think he’s seeing her anymore.”
Sarah wondered if she herself could be considered a bimbo. Could a thirty-four-year-old mother be a bimbo?
“His lawyer probably advised him to quit the houghmagandy till we reach a settlement.”
“What’s houghmagandy?” Mollie asked.
“Hanky-panky,” Heather said.
Sarah wondered if Mollie knew what hanky-panky meant. Then she wondered what Mollie would think if she knew her mother was engaged in hanky-panky with the man who’d saved her life not a month ago! But it wasn’t really hanky-panky, it was — she didn’t know what it was. She knew only that she couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop hungering for him. She had never felt like this in her life. Even when she was head over heels in love with the Duke basketball player who’d taken her to bed — well, the backseat of his Mustang, actually — three weeks after she’d met him. Eighteen years old and thrilled by his every move. She’d told her roommate that Avery on a basket — that was his name, Avery Howell, six feet five inches tall, redheaded and freckle-faced — Avery on a basketball court was “poetry in motion.” Direct quote. Eighteen-year-old Sarah Fitch, giddily in love. Even that was nothing compared to what she felt whenever she was with Andrew. But that wasn’t love, was it? No, she knew exactly what it was. And that made her a bimbo, yes.
“... question, Mom?”
“What? I’m sorry.”
“Aunt Heather just asked you a question.”
“My question was,” Heather said, sounding more exasperated than the situation seemed to warrant, “should we go to that little omelette place on Sixty-First, or should we go further uptown to Coco Pazzo?”