“And she reacted to that?”
“Reacted is right. Jerked as if I'd slapped her, spilled her wine.”
“Then what?” Cecca asked.
“She covered up fast. You know how good Katy was at covering even when she was flustered.”
“What did she say? What did you say?”
Eileen's memory had flowered; she'd always had the capacity for near-total recall. The conversation with Katy was already replaying in her mind, as clearly as if she were listening to a tape of it.
“Katy, my God, you are having an affair!”
“I am not! What makes you think that?”
“Well, the look on your face …”
“Oh, crap. You surprised me, that's all.”
“Oh come on, honey. You are, aren't you.”
“I just told you I'm not.”
“You can tell me. I'm your best friend.”
“And you can't keep a secret for ten minutes.”
“I'd keep this one.”
“Sure you would. You'd be on the phone to Cecca as soon as I walked out the door. You'd probably have her paged at River House.”
“You're really not?”
“I'm really not.”
“But you would if the right man came along? The right man, the right circumstances, spice up your life a little?”
“I don't know. Would you?”
“I've thought about it. He'd have to have a big dick.”
“That doesn't matter, and you know it.”
“It does when you're married to Theodore J. Harrell. Ted's not exactly hung like a horse. Or a Shetland pony, for that matter.”
“Count your blessings. If he was, you'd be walking funny.”
“Katy, let's suppose you are having an affair—”
“I'm not. How many times do I have to say it?”
“But suppose you were. Because you were bored and looking for some excitement … whatever reason. Who would you be having it with?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A man you've known for a long time—a friend? Like Tom Birnam or Jerry Whittington or George Flores—”
“Sweetie, you're being ridiculous. Don't start jumping to wild conclusions.”
“I'm not, I'm only asking.”
“Well, the answer is no.”
“Too close to home?”
“Yes. Too close to home.”
“But it wouldn't be somebody you just picked up, in a bar or someplace. I mean, the AIDS thing—”
“No. Can we just drop this?”
“I don't want to drop it. I find it fascinating.”
“Well, I don't.”
“It couldn't be a stranger, could it? It couldn't for me. I'd have to have some feelings for the guy before I could go to bed with him. Be able to talk to him about things that mattered, before and after. Feel comfortable with him.”
“… Okay, yes, for me, too.”
“So it wouldn't be just sex, the big O. There'd have to be some real emotion, too.”
“If you're talking about love …”
“I don't mean love. I mean feelings.”
“Feelings.”
“You'd have to like him. Not love but like.”
“I suppose so. Is there any more wine in that bottle?”
“Help yourself. What if it grew into more, though—got really intense?”
“Intense? What're you talking about now?”
“Same subject. Your affair.”
“Eileen, if you don't stop …”
“All right, your hypothetical affair. What if it turned into something more than sex, deeper than just liking?”
“That wouldn't happen.”
“Are you sure it couldn't?”
“I wouldn't let it.”
“Suppose it was heading that way. What would you do?”
“Break it off.”
“Just like that? Sorry, it's been nice, good-bye?”
“Not quite that coldly, but … yes.”
“So you'd never leave Dix? No matter what?”
“I don't think I could, no.”
“That doesn't sound very definite.”
“Bad phrasing. No, I wouldn't leave Dix. Never, no matter what.”
“You love him that much?”
“That much. Always have, always will.”
“Suppose he finds out about the affair?”
“There's nothing for him to find out, Eileen.”
“If there was. Would he leave you?”
“No. Never.”
“He might. Men are unpredictable sometimes.”
“Not Dix.”
“He'd just forgive you and go on as if nothing happened?”
“Sooner or later. But it would never come to that.”
“No? Why not?”
“Because he'd never find out. I wouldn't let him find out.”
“Famous last words. Skeletons have a way of falling out of closets, honey, you know that.”
“I'd do anything to keep that from happening. Anything. And if you start spreading this nonsense around town, start a lot of nasty rumors, our friendship is kaput. I mean that. I'll never speak to you again.”
“Oh, lighten up, will you? We're just playing a game here.”
“Some game.”
“How long would you let it go on?”
“… What?”
“The affair. A few weeks, a few months, a year or more?”
“Oh, God. No, not that long.”
“Six months?”
“No.”
“How long, then? Maximum?”
“Three months, okay? Are you satisfied now?”
“Three months. I guess you could get a lot of screwing in in three months. How many times a week would you do it with him, anyway? Two, three, four?”
“Shit, Eileen—!”
“How often do you and Dix do it? Three or four times a month? That seems to be the general marital frequency for people our age. Sometimes I think that's the real reason we have affairs, men and women both—not so much because we want to try out another body, but because we want more nookie than we're getting from our spouses. What do you think?”