Cut and Thrust

60

Barbara picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“It’s Charles,” he said.

“Get home!” she said. “And right now!”

“What’s wrong, dearest?”

“Disaster! Catastrophe! Why did I let myself get talked into doing that interview?” Her voice was pitched higher than usual, and it wavered. “Hugh Gordon is going to pay for this.”

“Oh, come now, it can’t have been all that bad.”

“That woman knew everything, and I mean everything! She knew about Mexico, for God’s sake. How could she know about that?”

“Now, Barbara,” Charles said soothingly, “you’ve got to get ahold of yourself.”

“Order the airplane!” she shouted. “We’re leaving the country tonight!”

“Where shall I tell them to take us, sweetheart?”

“Anywhere they can’t get at me.”

“London, then?”

“Yes, London. Call the pilot right now, then come home and pack.”

“I’ll get right on it, my dear.” Charles hung up.

Charles drove the rest of the way, thinking hard. Everything was coming unglued. He’d known something like this might happen if anyone important ever got wind of her past doings, and apparently that was just what had happened. Half the population of San Francisco must have seen the program; his dealership would be doomed; nobody would buy a car from a man married to the murderess Barbara Eagle. What could have possessed her to submit to a television interview? He had to find a way out of this.

Barbara rang for her maid.

The woman appeared. “Good evening, Mrs. Grosvenor,” she said. “May I get you something?”

“Pack a bag, two changes of clothes and a trench coat. I’m leaving within the hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said, then fled to the master bedroom.

Barbara left her to her work, went to the bar, and poured vodka into a glass — a lot of vodka. She knocked back half of it, then walked out onto the terrace. The sun was below the horizon, but the sky was still aglow, and the lights of the city were coming on as darkness approached.

Suddenly, she had it: they would stop in Santa Fe, and she would go out to Eagle’s house and shoot him and that actress wife of his. She would do it herself this time — no middleman. Then they could continue to London, and she could begin to rebuild her life.

“South America,” she said aloud. “Nobody knows me in Buenos Aires. I’ll take the city by storm!”

The maid appeared on the terrace behind her. “Pardon me, Mrs. Grosvenor,” she said sweetly. “Shall I pack some handbags?”

Barbara wheeled on her. “Can’t you do any goddamned thing? Don’t you know by now what I want and don’t want?” She was spewing vodka as she screamed.

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said, then fled the terrace and went back to her packing.

Charles drove into the apartment building. He jumped out of the car, leaving the door open and the engine running. The doormen would take care of it. He waited impatiently for the elevator to arrive, then pressed the P button, and half a minute later the doors slid open.

He felt sick to his stomach. Now, just when he had nearly everything he wanted, she was coming apart. He knew what the flight to London would be like, and the days beyond. She could be the bitch from hell for weeks at a time, especially when she had had some upset, and this sounded like the upset to end all upsets.

He didn’t want to leave San Francisco; he loved the city, and the city loved him. He had friends here, even admirers, whereas in London he was nothing but a moneyed arriviste, the creature the British upper classes despised most. He had been blackballed by the Garrick Club and White’s, after he had practically forced business acquaintances to put him up for membership. He had bought a yacht, then had had to sell it at a huge loss because no top yacht club would have him, and Barbara wouldn’t let him join anything less. She had made a public scene at Annabel’s when they had had to wait half an hour for a table, humiliating him in front of people he wanted to be his friends, and someone from the yellow British press had witnessed the event and spread it over the gossip columns, along with his history of being blackballed. People had stopped returning his phone calls. His heart was pounding. How could he stop her from going to London? He couldn’t, he realized. He was at her disposal, pure and simple.

It had to end.

The elevator doors opened, and he could see straight through the apartment to the terrace, where she stood, looking out over the city. She put a glass to her lips and threw back a drink, then set the glass on the parapet.

Charles was walking toward the terrace, then he was walking faster, then he was running. She heard him coming and glanced over her shoulder. “Where the fuck have you been? Get me another drink,” she spat, then turned back to the Bay view.

Charles went straight for her. He stopped, bent over, grabbed her by the ankles, and dumped her over the parapet. She didn’t scream, she shouted obscenities all the way down, until they ended in a soft plop.

He didn’t pause to think about what he had done; he ran back to the elevator, turned, and screamed, “BARBARA!” Then he walked quickly through the living room.

The maid appeared from the direction of the bedroom. “Mr. Grosvenor,” she called at his back as he walked. “Is anything wrong?”

“Didn’t you see her go over?” Charles walked to the parapet and looked down. He could hear horns blowing and brakes screeching from the street fifteen stories below. “Barbara!” he shouted.

The maid appeared at his elbow. “What’s happened?”

“She went over,” Charles replied, feigning shock. “As the elevator doors opened I saw her standing there, then she put down her glass and climbed over the edge.” The glass stood empty on the parapet.

“Oh, my God!” the maid half whispered. “Should I call somebody?”

“Call 911,” he said. “Tell them a woman has jumped from the terrace into Green Street.”

The maid ran for the phone.

A feeling of relief washed over Charles. He was free of her, free at last. He could be a man again, and anywhere he wanted. He walked back into the living room, to the bar, poured himself a stiff scotch, then sat down in a living room chair. He took a swig and stared at the floor, composing himself for what lay ahead.

He was still sitting there in that pose when the police arrived.

Later, after the eleven o’clock news, Billy Burnett, aka Teddy Fay, switched off the television and turned to Betsy. “It seems my work in San Francisco is done,” he said.