Bad Business

16

Susan and I spent Saturday morning together in a series of flossy little stores on Newbury Street, where all the clerks knew her and called her Mrs. Silverman, except for a few of the most seriously expensive, where they called her Susan. Twice I was offered Perrier, but otherwise, they ignored me. Which was fine with me. If the store had someplace to sit, and most of the stores did, I didn't mind shopping with Susan. I liked to watch her with the clothes. I liked to watch her interact with the clerks. I liked it when she'd come out of the dressing room and model something. I liked it that she cared what I thought. I liked it that she wanted my company. I took a proprietary pleasure when she'd invite me to consult in the dressing room door, where she was half clothed. The fact that in most of the stores I fit in like a warthog at a cat show did not dampen my spirits.

For lunch we went to the refurbished Ritz Cafe. This was the original Ritz, not the new one where the Eisens had their condo. It had been spruced and polished and modified, but the windows in the cafe still gave out onto Newbury Street. We got a seat in the window bay and watched the cold spring rain.

"Why do you suppose that security man was so icky?" Susan said.

"Part of it would probably be-what do you shrinkos call it?-characterological," I said.

"Shrinkos," Susan said. "How sweet."

"And some of it, I don't know. He clearly didn't want Eisen to answer me."

"Do you think he'll talk to you at home, or somewhere away from Gavin?"

"Eisen seems eager to be a winner, not a loser, and I'd guess that he got a firm lecture from Gavin on how loose lips sink ships."

"So he won't?"

"Probably not. Unless there's something scares him more than Gavin."

"Is Gavin really that scary?"

"He seems a nasty guy," I said. "Rigid, anal, mean, spends too much time on his appearance."

"That last is not always a fault," Susan said.

"As we've just recently proved," I said. "But you aside. This guy looks like he's assembled by a drill team every morning."

"In many firms the chief of security is a middle-management functionary," Susan said.

"I know," I said. "You ever hear of a guy named Darrin O'Mara?"

Susan laughed. "The radio guy?"

"Yeah. What do you think of him professionally?"

"Darrin O'Mara?" Susan laughed again and flapped her hands as she searched for the right phrase. "He's a ... he's a talk show host."

"He make any sense?"

"No, of course not. He looks good and he has a nice voice, and his show has a catchy title."

"`Matters of the Heart,' " I said.

"Yes," Susan said. "And I listen to it sometimes, because some of my less worldly patients listen to him."

"So do I hear you saying you don't hold with courtly love?" I said.

"Courtly love is a poetic conceit," Susan said. "You know that."

"We're not married," I said.

"That's true. And it's true that we love each other. And it has nothing to do with the conventions of Provençal poetry. We haven't married because the two of us have autonomy needs that marriage doesn't serve."

"Gee," I said. "Not so we'd be free to love uncoerced?"

"You know that we'd love each other married or unmarried. But we are probably happier-though neither more nor less in love-unmarried."

"So you are not one to promote adultery."

"It is the most destructive act in a relationship," Susan said. "You know all this perfectly well. You just like me to talk about us."

"I do," I said.