He had a reputation at stake, and she had nothing to lose. The odds were all with her.
She was not an ally but an adversary, and his resentment came back in full force, so strong that it was a kind of hatred.
She was leaning towards him across the table, the spotlight catching her long eyelashes and framing those green-flecked eyes. Her mouth was quivering with eagerness, and a tiny bubble of saliva likea seed pearl sparkled on her lower lip. Even in his anger and fear, Craig wondered what it would be like to kiss that mouth.
"Craig," she said. "I can do better than those if I have the chance. I can go all the way, if you give me the chance.
Please!"
"You like elephants?" Craig asked her. "I'll tell you an elephant story. This big old bull elephant had a flea that lived in his left ear. One day the elephant crossed a rickety bridge, and when he got to the other side, the flea said in his car, "Boo boy! We sure rocked that bridge!"" Sally-Anne's lips closed slowly and then paled. Her eyelids fluttered, the dark lashes beating like butterflies" wings, and as the tears began to sparkle behind them she leaned back out of the light.
There was a silence, and in it Craig felt a rush of remorse. He felt sickened by his own cruelty and pettiness.
He had expected her to be tough and resilient, to come back with a barbed retort. He had not expected the tears.
He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he didn't mean it the way it sounded. He wanted to explain his own fear and insecurity, but she was rising and picking up the folio of photographs.
"Parts of your book were so understanding, so compassionate, I wanted so badly to work with you," she said softly. "I guess it was dumb to expect you to be like your book." She looked at Ashe. "I'm sorry, Ashe, I'm just not hungry any more." Ashe Levy stood quickly. "We'll share a cab," he said.
Then softly to Craig, "Well done, hero, call me when you've got the new typescript finished, and he hurried after Sally-Anne. As she went through the door the sunlight back-lit her and Craig saw the shape of her legs through her skirt. They were long and lovely, and then she was gone.
Henry Pickering was fiddling with his glass, studying the wine thoughtfully.
"It's pasteurized Roman goat urine," Craig said. He found his voice was uneven. He signalled the wine waiter and ordered a Meursault.
"That's better," Henry understated it. "Well, perhaps the book wasn't such a great idea after all, was it?" He glanced at his wrist-watch. "We'd better order." They talked of other things the Mexican loan default, Reagan's midterm assessment, the gold price Henry preferred silver for a quick appreciation and thought diamonds would soon be looking good again. "I'd buy De Beers to hold," he advised.
A svelte young blonde from one of the other tables came across while they were taking coffee.
"You're Craig Mello*," she accused him. "I saw you on TV. I loved yQuit book. Please, please, sign this for me." While he signed her menu, she leaned over him and pressed one hard hot little breast against his shoulder.
"I work at the cosmetics counter in Saks Fifth Ave," she breathed.
"You can find me there any time." The odour of expensive, pilfered perfumes lingered after she had left.
"Do you always turn them away?" Henry asked a little wistfully.
[mill
"Man is only flesh and blood," Craig laughed, and Henry insisted on paying the tab.
"I have a limo, "he offered. "I could drop you."
"I'll walk off the pasta," Craig said.
CDO you know, Craig, I think you'll go back to Africa. I saw the way you looked at those photographs. Likea hungry man."
"It's possible."
"The book. Our interest in it. There was more to it than Ashe understood. You know the top blacks there. That interests me. The ideas you expressed in the book fit into our thinking. If you do decide to go back, call me before you do. You and I could do each other a favour." Henry climbed into the back seat of the black Cadillac, and then with the door still open he said, "I thought her pictures were rather good, actually." He closed the door and nodded to the chauffeur.
was moored between two new commercially built yachts, a forty-five-foot Camper and Nicholson and a Hatteras convertible, and she stood the comparison well enough, although she was almost five years old. Craig had put in every screw with his own hands. He paused at the gates of the marina to look at her, but somehow today he did not derive as much pleasure as usual from her lines.
"Been a couple of calls for you, Craig," the girl behind the reception desk in the marina office called out to him as he went in. "You can use this phone," she offered.
He checked the slips she handed him, one from his broker marked turgent', another from the literary editor of a mid-western daily. There hadn't been too many of those recently.
He phoned the broker first. They had sold the Mocatta gold certificates that he had bought for three hundred and twenty dollars an ounce at five hundred and two dollars.
He instructed them to put the money on call deposit.
Then he dialled the second number. While he waited to be connected, the girl behind the desk moved around more than was really necessary, bending over the lowest drawers of the filing-cabinet to give Craig a good look at what she had in her white Bermudas and pink halter-top.