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“Admiring again?” I said, stepping out to join Paul.

He had the grace to blush. I smiled and moved over to the railing. “It’s taken a while,” I said. “But I’ve finally figured her out. She’s having an affair with a married man.”

I wasn’t prepared for the vehemence of Paul’s response. “For God’s sake, Myra,” he exclaimed, “how can you say a thing like that about someone you’ve never met and don’t know the first thing about?”

“Oh, I know quite a lot about her,” I said. “I’ve been watching her. And she has a very strange on-again off-again love life. Three, sometimes four evenings a week she’s given a terrific rush, but the rest of the time she’s left to herself. And,” I added significantly, “those dates are always on the same nights and never on a weekend. Now, how do you explain that those are the nights her boy friend has an excuse to be away from his family?”

“I wouldn’t even try to explain it,” Paul said, “because it’s none of my business. What is my business, though, is that you seem to be spending all your time spying on a neighbor.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “I was just curious and I did a little checking to satisfy that curiosity. But that’s all.”

“ ‘But that’s all,’ ” Paul said. He shook his head. “Seriously, Myra, I’ve been worried about you ever since we moved here. You’ve had entirely too much time on your hands. And that’s not healthy.”

“It would help,” I said bitterly, “if you spent a little more time around here yourself. For all I see of you I might as well not have a husband.”

He looked away. “If I could change things,” he said, “I would. But I can’t.”

I put my hand out to touch his arm. “I didn’t mean that,” I said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Paul still wouldn’t look at me. “Please, Myra,” he said, “just find something to get you out of the apartment once in a while. And keep your mind off that girl.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll find something. I promise.”

It’s funny how things work out. Because if I hadn’t made that promise to Paul it never would have occurred to me to call Sheila Smallwood. And if I hadn’t called Sheila, none of the rest would have happened, either.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” I said to Sheila when I had her on the line. “But it’s foolish for both of us to sit home alone. So why don’t we take in a movie or something while Paul and George are working tonight?”

There was a long moment of silence from Sheila’s end of the line. Then: “I don’t know what you mean, Myra. George hasn’t worked nights in years. Has Paul?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “I thought all the senior staff were.”

“Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Sheila said. “Although,” she added too hastily, “just because George isn’t working, that doesn’t mean others aren’t. And we can still get together if you like. Even if only to talk—”

“No,” I said, putting the phone down. “No.”

God, what a fool I’d been! But isn’t that what they say? The wife is always the last one to know?

More sick than angry, I mechanically went through the routine of opening up the balcony doors, then just sat out there and let the darkness settle around me.

Paul and another woman! Because, of course, what else could it be? Some chit of a girl probably, from the office or—

My attention was diverted despite myself by a sudden movement in the building across the way — the girl pulling her drapes closed to signal the arrival of her lover.

I started to look away, no longer interested. But then my eyes swung back to those closed drapes and I was caught by a sudden thought. Why was she always so careful to close them the moment her lover arrived? Was it modesty? Or was it that she knew someone was watching — someone who would recognize the lover and spoil their little game?

Because the lover was Paul.

No, I told myself, that was crazy. Things like that just didn’t happen. But even then other thoughts were crowding in: hadn’t the start of her affair coincided with the start of Paul’s working nights? Hadn’t she been stuck home alone the one night Paul had taken me out? And the other nights her lover had called, weren’t those also nights Paul had “worked?” I was sure they were.

Until at last I sat there faced with the awful realization that for the last month I’d been watching another woman carry on an affair with my husband.

That night I lay stiff and still, pretending sleep when Paul came in. The next morning, too, I waited until I was sure he was gone before getting up. Sooner or later I was going to have to face him, I knew. But not just yet, not until I had planned what I had to do next. Because a night of thinking it over — and over and over — had convinced me that the last thing I wanted was to lose Paul.

Not that things could ever be the same between us. But a divorce would leave me with nothing but an empty apartment and an emptier life. And that, above all, was what I didn’t want.

The big question, though, was how could I prevent it? There was always the chance, of course, that if I pretended not to have noticed anything, the affair would burn itself out. It was an awfully big maybe, though, and could I really sit here alone night after night knowing what was going on across the way? But what other choices did I have?

Not many, I’m afraid. I couldn’t compete with the girl on her own terms. Even in my heyday 20 years before I’d have been no match for her, and I didn’t have to look in a mirror to know that the years in between hadn’t been altogether kind. I didn’t dare risk an out-and-out confrontation with Paul, either. At this stage of the game, forced to make a choice, he was probably infatuated enough to choose her.

Bitterly I went to the balcony and stared across. The girl had risen early today and was out on her own balcony smoking a before-breakfast cigarette. Damn, damn, damn you, I thought, wishing her ugly or dead or both.

Almost as if the thought had reached across to her, she straightened with insolent grace, flipped away the cigarette, and strolled casually back into her apartment. Deliberately she left the drapes open and as I watched her move about it came to me. What I could do to beat her.

It was early that evening when I heard Paul come in. I got up from where I was sitting on the balcony and went back to our bedroom where he was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt.

“Hi,” he said. “I didn’t think you were home.” He finished unbuttoning the shirt and pulled it off. “I just have time to change and run right back. There are some people in from Washington and I have to have dinner with them and then go over the final specs for a new contract.” He broke off when he saw my face. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Is something wrong?”

I shook my head and forced myself to smile. “No,” I said. “I’m just disappointed. I’d hoped you’d be staying home tonight.”

Paul mumbled something and turned to pick out a fresh tie. I came over, as I always did, found one that matched his suit and handed it to him.

“Would you like to hear something funny?” I said. “I was watching that girl across the way this afternoon—”

“Myra!” Paul said. “You said you were going to stop that.”

“I know,” I said. “And I really intended to. But then her lover showed up and I couldn’t resist getting a peek at him.”

Paul paused with his tie half knotted. “Her lover?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t her brother — not the way they carried on. But the funny part is that I must have been wrong about his being married. Actually he’s quite young. And good-looking, too.”

Paul didn’t say anything, so I went on, as if the idea had just occurred to me. “But then maybe I wasn’t wrong after all. Wouldn’t it be something if she had a married lover to pay her bills and then was two-timing him with this younger one?”