The Pursuit of Happiness

'Well, by the time Georgie-boy and his parents are finished with you, you're going to feel like a character in an Ibsen play'.

'Thanks a lot'.

'How did they take the news?'

I considered this question, and finally answered, 'They took it reflectively'.

'Reflectively?What the hell do you mean by that?'

'They had a measured response to the news'.

'They're WASPs, for God's sake, not Italians Of course they'd be measured. But I bet they were a bit glacial as well'.

I said nothing. Because glacial was the right word. Though George had informed his parents of our engagement on the afternoon I accepted his proposal, it was agreed that we'd wait at least a month or two before deciding on a date for the wedding.

Then I got the news from Dr Ballensweig, and had to pass it on to George. He took it pretty well, telling me how much he wanted children with me. I did point out that a child might put a strain on a new marriage - especially one where the two people involved had only known each other for a month before getting engaged. But George reassured me that all would be fine.

'We're going to be just hunky-dory', he said. 'Because when we're as much in love as we are, all problems are easily solvable'.

Hunky-dory. Wonderful.

'Naturally', he said, 'Mother and Father might be a tad concerned about the fact that the wedding will now have to be brought a little forward'.

'You'll break the news to them, won't you?'

There was a long silence on the phone. When he spoke again, he sounded like a man who had just been 'volunteered' into leading the advance party into Injun Country.

'Of course I'll tell them', he said, his nervousness so apparent. 'And I know they are going to be thrilled to be grandparents'.

He went up to Connecticut the following night. Early the next morning, the phone rang at my office. It was my future mother-in-law.

'Julia Grey here', she said crisply.

'Oh, hello', I said, sounding seriously thrown.

'I am planning to be in the city tomorrow. It is important that we meet. Say four p.m. in the Palm Court of the Plaza. All right?'

Before I had time to reply, she had put down the receiver - making it very clear that she didn't care whether or not that time was suitable for me. I was being summoned. I would be there.

Instantly I picked up the phone and called George at his office.

'Darling, I was just about to call you', he said.

'Your mother pre-empted you'.

'Oh. I see'.

'And from her brusque tone, it's pretty clear how she took the news'.

He cleared his throat. Loudly. Then said, 'Naturally, it came as a surprise to them. But after the initial... uh...'

'Shock?'

'Yes, well, uh, they were, truth be told, quite shocked. But that only lasted a moment or two. After which they became...'

'Furious?'

'Reflective'.

'Now they really hate me'.

'Darling, they don't hate you at all. On the contrary...'

'They think what? That I am a great social catch? The perfect banker's wife?'

I could almost hear him squirming at the other end of the phone.

'Darling, everything will be fine. Just fine. Trust me'.

'I have no choice, do I?'

'And don't worry about Mother's brusqueness. It's just...'

'Her style, I suppose?'

'Gosh, we're already completing each other's sentences'.

I put down the phone. I put my head in my hands. I felt cornered, trapped. There was no way out.

The next afternoon, I left my office at three thirty and walked up Fifth Avenue, full of dread. I entered the Plaza Hotel at the appointed time. Mrs Grey was seated at a table in the Palm Court. She saw me approach. She did not smile. She did not proffer her hand. She simply motioned to the chair beside her and said, 'Sit down, Sara'.

I did as ordered. She stared at me for a long time, her lips pinched, turning them into a fine inflexible line that bisected her face. I tried to meet her disdainful stare. I began to knead my hands together. Naturally she noticed this.

'Are you feeling anxious, Sara?' she asked mildly.

My hands froze. 'Yes. I am feeling anxious'.

'I suppose, were I in your situation, I would feel anxious as well. The fact is, though - I would never have landed myself in such a situation. One always pays a huge price for impulsiveness'.

'And, I suppose, you've never been guilty of impulsiveness?'

Her lips expanded into her telltale tight smile. 'No', she said.

'Not a single act of rashness in your entire life?'

'I'm afraid not'.

'How controlled of you'.

'I will take that as a compliment, Sara. But back to business...'

'I didn't realize we were talking business'.

'Oh yes. This is, without question, a business conversation. Because, as far as I'm concerned, we have nothing else to talk about but the practical matter of arranging a wedding post haste. We don't want you walking down the aisle visibly enceinte, now do we?'

Another of her narrow smiles. I said nothing.

'Of course, everyone at the wedding will naturally know why we have so expedited the scheduling of the ceremony. Which, in turn, means that we will want to keep the event small and discreet. No doubt, this will not tally with your childhood fantasies of a big all-white wedding...'

'How do you know what my childhood fantasies were?' I asked, the anger showing.

'Don't all girls dream of a big wedding?'

'No'.

'Of course I forgot - you and your brother were always a little out of step with things, much to the distress of your very nice parents'.

I glared at her, wide-eyed.

'How dare you make such an assumption...'

'I'm not making an assumption, dear. I am simply reporting established fact. We have these very old friends in Hartford - the Montgomerys. They were your parents' neighbors, n'est-ce pas?'

'Yes. They lived a few houses away from us'.

'Well, when Mr Grey and I discovered - somewhat abruptly, I should add - that you were to be our daughter-in-law, we decided to do a little checking into your background. It turned out Mr Grey knew Mr Montgomery from Princeton. Class of nineteen oh eight. And Mr Montgomery and his wife, Miriam, were exceedingly informative about your family. I never knew, for example, that your brother is a Communist'.

'He is not a Communist'.

'He joined the Party, didn't he?'

'Yes... but that was during the thirties, when it was fashionable...'

'Fashionable? To the best of my knowledge the Communist Party wishes to overthrow the government of this country. Is that your idea of chic, Sara?'

'He left the Party in forty-one. He made a mistake. He's the first to admit that now'.

'What a pity your poor parents aren't around to hear his renunciation'.

I felt myself getting very angry.

'Eric mightn't be the most conventional of men, but he was always a good son to our parents... and he is the best brother imaginable'.

'I do so admire familial loyalty. Especially in the face of such unconventionality'.

'I don't know what you are talking about'.

'Oh yes you do. So too, I gather, did your late parents. In fact, word has it that your brother's unconventionality so upset your father that it hastened the stroke which killed him'.

'It's outrageous to blame Eric...'

'No one is apportioning blame, Sara. I'm just reporting what I heard from others. Just as I also heard that you directly contravened your father's wishes by moving to New York after Bryn Mawr. And shortly thereafter, the stroke felled him...'

I was on the verge of screaming at her. Or slapping her. Or spitting in her face. My heart was pounding, my rage immense. She saw this, and responded by affording me another of her little smiles. A smile which invited me to do something reprehensible... and pay an even bigger price than the one I was paying now. A smile which forced me to remain in control.

So, taking several deep steadying breaths, I simply stood up and said, 'We have nothing more to say to each other, Mrs Grey'.

Her tone remained temperate, steady.

'If you walk out of here now, dear, you will be creating enormous problems for yourself'.

'I don't care'.

'Oh yes you do. After all, I can't imagine a respectable family magazine like Saturday Night/Sunday Morning allowing an unwed mother to remain in their employment. And once Saturday/Sunday dismisses you on moral grounds, who on earth will hire you? Then there's the matter of your apartment. Isn't there some clause in the standard New York City tenancy lease... Mr Grey mentioned this to me en passant... about landlords being able to evict tenants who have committed acts of moral turpitude ? Granted, having a child out of wedlock might not fit the letter of the law... but could you afford to fight such an eviction in court?'

I sat down again. I said nothing. Mrs Grey lowered her head for a moment. When she raised it again, she was the picture of civility.

'I knew that, at heart, you were a sensible girl, Sara. I'm certain that, from this moment forward, we will get along just fine. Tea?'

I didn't respond. Possibly because I felt the way a convicted felon must feel when he's been sentenced to life imprisonment. This was the abyss. And I was in it.

'I'll take your silence as a yes', she said, motioning towards a waiter. 'Now then, back to business. The wedding...'

She outlined the plans. Under the hasty circumstances, a wedding at the family parish church in Connecticut was out of the question ('one simply does not organize such an event with two weeks' notice'). Instead, there would be a simple straightforward service at the Marble Collegiate Church in Manhattan - to which I would be allowed to invite four guests, including my brother ('I presume he will be giving you away?' she asked dryly). There would be a simple, straightforward reception afterwards here at the Plaza. George would be organizing 'the honeymoon details', though Mrs Grey had suggested to him 'a nice, modest hotel' in Provincetown, into which he had subsequently booked us for a week. After the honeymoon, we would be moving into our new home... in Old Greenwich, Connecticut.

It took a moment for this news to register. 'George and I are moving where?' I asked.

'To Old Greenwich, Connecticut. You mean, he hasn't yet told you... ?'

'Considering that he only informed you of our news last night...'

'Of course, of course. The poor boy's had so much on his mind. Anyway, when he did tell us your wonderful news yesterday evening, Mr Grey gave him the most marvelous surprise. As our wedding gift to you both, we're letting you have a little house we bought as an investment a year or so ago in Old Greenwich. Do understand - it's hardly a mansion. But it's the perfect starter house for a young family. And it's only five minutes' walk to the railway station, so it will be very handy for George's commute to Manhattan. Do you know Old Greenwich? Very sweet little town... and right near Long Island Sound, so it will be perfect for...'

Drowning myself.

'... outings with other young mothers. After the baby arrives I'm sure you'll find so much to do up there. Coffee mornings. Church socials. Charity yard sales. The PTA

As I listened to her delineate, with relish, my prosaic future, all I could think was: this is a masterclass in how to twist the knife.

I finally interrupted her.

'Why can't we live in George's apartment for a while?'

'That dreadful place? I wouldn't allow it, Sara'.

It wasn't that dreadful: a serviced one-bedroom flat in a residential hotel, the Mayflower, on 61st Street and Central Park West.

'We could always find a bigger place in the city', I said.

'The city is no place to raise children'.

'But the baby's not due for around seven months. I don't want to be commuting back and forth to Connecticut to my job...'

'Your job?' she said, sounding amused. 'What job?'

'My job at Saturday/Sunday, of course'.

'Oh, that job. You'll be resigning at the end of next week'.

'No I won't'.

'Of course you will. Because a week later you will be married. And married women do not work'.

'I was planning to be the exception'.

'Sorry, dear. It cannot be. Anyway, given your condition, you'd have to give up work in a few months. It's the way motherhood works'.

I tried to remain rational, reasoned, in control.

'Say I refused? Say I simply walked out of this hotel right now and didn't go through with any of this?'

'I have already outlined the consequences to you. I do believe in individual free will - so, as far as I'm concerned, you may do whatever you want to do. Sadly, the outcome of such a decision may not be to your liking - as raising a child on your own without a job or a decent place to live may be a little difficult. But we would never dream of stopping you...'

My eyes began to water. I felt tears cascading down my face. 'Why are you doing this?' I whispered.

Mrs Grey looked at me, baffled. 'Doing what, dear?'

'Ruining my life'.

'Ruining your life? Please spare me the cheap melodrama, Sara. I certainly didn't force you to get pregnant, now did I?'

I said nothing.

'Anyway, if I was in your position, I would be positively delighted with the way everything's been arranged. After all, it's not many girls who get given a house in a desirable suburb as a wedding gift'.

A final tight smile. I stared down at the table. There was a lengthy silence.

'Cat got your tongue, dear? Or have you simply seen the logic of my arguments?'

My gaze remained fixed on the table.

'Splendid', she finally said. 'Our plans will proceed as agreed. Oh... and look who's here to see us. What marvelous timing the boy has'.

I looked up. George was standing at the entrance of the Palm Court, hesitantly awaiting the wave of his mother's hand that would beckon him to the table. No doubt, she had given him an appointed time at which to arrive at the Plaza. Just as she had told him last night exactly how she was going to stage manage our life from this day forward. Because, in the world according to Mrs Grey, this was the price one paid for transgressing her sense of order and decorum and social standing.

Mrs Grey used her right index finger to beckon George forward. He approached our table shyly, like a schoolboy being called into the principal's office.

'Hi there', he said, trying to sound cheery. 'Everyone happy?'

He glanced at me and saw that I had been crying. Immediately, he tensed. His mother said, 'Sara and I have been discussing future plans, and we're in agreement on everything'.

I said nothing. I continued to stare at the table-top. Her voice became testy. 'Aren't we, dear?'

I didn't raise my gaze, but I did say, 'Yes. Everything is fine'.

'And we now so understand each other, don't we?'

I nodded.

'So you see, George - everything is working out splendidly... as I told you it would. As I'm sure you well know, Sara - the poor boy is a bit of a worrier. Aren't you, George?'

'I guess so', he said nervously. Sitting down next to me, he tried to take my hand. But I pulled it away before he clutched it. Mrs Grey caught sight of this little drama and smiled.

'I think I'll go powder my nose, and let you lovebirds have a moment or two alone'.

As soon as she was out of earshot, George said, 'Darling, don't be upset...'

'I didn't realize I was marrying your mother'.

'You're not'.

'Oh yes I am... as it seems that she is calling all the shots here'.

'After the wedding, we can block her right out of our lives

'After the wedding we will be living in Old Greenwich, Connecticut. How nice of you to discuss this little change of address with me...'

'The offer of the house only came last night'.

'So you naturally decided to accept it without consulting me'.

'I meant to call you at work this morning'.

'But you didn't'.

'I was tied up in meetings'.

'Liar. You were afraid what my reaction might be'.

He lowered his head. 'Yes. I was afraid how you might react. But, look, the house in Old Greenwich was just a really generous offer from my parents. We don't have to accept it'.

I stared at him with utter contempt. 'Yes we do', I said, 'and you know it'.

A pause. He squirmed in his chair. And finally said, 'You'll really like Old Greenwich'.

'I'm so glad you think so', I said.

And if you don't like it...'

'Then what?'

'Then...' He squirmed again. 'I promise you, it will all work out. Let's just get through the wedding...'

'And then - let me guess - you're going to tell her to stay out of our lives forever?'

Another uncomfortable pause. 'I'll try', he said, his voice a near whisper. He then made a loud coughing noise to indicate that his mother was returning. When she approached our table, George instantly stood up and held her chair. After she sat down, she nodded to indicate that he could be seated. Then she turned her gaze to me.

'So', she asked, 'did you have a nice chat about things?'

Had I been the fearless sort, I would have stood up and walked out of the Plaza, and accepted my fate. But to do that, in 1947, would have meant taking the most enormous personal gamble. And yes, as much as I loathed her, Mrs Grey was right about one thing: deciding to be a single mother would have meant instant unemployment, instant social ostracization. Back then, only widows and abandoned women were allowed to be single mothers. To decide to have a child outside of wedlock - or, worse yet, to reject an offer of marriage by the child's father - would have been considered, at best, deeply reprehensible; at worst, deranged. And I didn't possess the don't give a damn mentality needed to buck conventionality. I longed to have Eric's seditious streak, but knew I couldn't pull it off. Like it or not, I was a small-c conservative. My parents may have despaired at my minor acts of rebellion - like moving to Manhattan after college. But they instilled in me such a fear of authority - and such deeply engrained notions of respectability - that I felt unable to do the impossible, awkward thing: telling George Grey and his godawful parent to go to hell.

I certainly wasn't going to tell Eric about my conversation with Mrs Grey (or the way I was being railroaded into a life in Old Greenwich, Connecticut), because I knew he would have gone berserk. At best, I would have to listen to his very impassioned, very persuasive arguments, pleading with me to bail out of this future domestic nightmare while there was still a chance. At worst, he would have done something melodramatic... like spiriting me out of the country to Paris or Mexico City until the baby was born.

But my mind was made up. I was going to marry George. I was going to move to the Connecticut suburbs. I was going to have the child. I had landed myself in this mess. I was going to accept my fate. Because I deserved my fate.

I also began to rationalize like crazy. All right, George was dwarfed by his mother - but once we were married, I would be able to gradually excise her from our lives. All right, I would hate leaving New York - but maybe Old Greenwich would give me the peace and quiet I needed to try writing again. All right, my husband-to-be was the emotional equivalent of vanilla ice cream - but hadn't I vowed never to fall victim to wayward passion again? Hadn't I vowed to avoid another...

Jack.

Jack. Jack. Damn you, Jack. That night - that one absurd night - led me right into the dull, worthy arms of George Grey.

In the two weeks running up to the wedding, I assented to everything. I let Mrs Grey make all the arrangements for the ceremony and the party. I let her book me a rushed appointment at a dress-maker, who whipped up a standard-issue white wedding dress for $85 ('Of course we wouldn't dream of letting you pay, dear', Mrs Grey said at the fitting). I let her choose the order of the service, the menu at the reception, the centerpiece on the cake. I accompanied George by train to Old Greenwich to inspect our new house. It was a small two-storey Cape Codder, located on a road called Park Avenue, within a five-minute walk from the railway station. Park Avenue was very leafy, very residential. Each house had a substantial front yard, with a very green lawn. They were all immaculately manicured. Just as all the houses showed no signs of wear-and-tear: no peeling paint, or decrepit roofs, or smudged windows. From my first stroll down Park Avenue, I knew immediately that this was a community which did not tolerate such sins against the body politic as unmowed grass or badly graveled driveways.

The houses along Park Avenue were New England in character - testaments to Poe-style Gothic rubbing shoulders with white clapboard, and Federalist red brick. Ours was one of the smallest properties, with low ceilings and small, cramped rooms. They were papered in discreet floral prints or tiny red-and-blue checks - the sort of old Americana patterns that put me in mind of the inside of a Whitman's chocolate box. The furniture was spartan in character and size - cramped, narrow sofas; hard wooden armchairs, a pair of narrow single beds in the master bedroom. There was a plain wooden table in the other bedroom with a bentwood chair.

'This will be the perfect place to write your novel', George said, trying to sound cheerful.

'So where will the baby sleep?' I asked quietly.

'In our room for the first few months. Anyway, we should look on this place as nothing more than a starter house. Once we have a couple of kids, we'll definitely need...'

I cut him off.

'One child at a time, okay?'

'Fine, fine', he said, sounding anxious at my testy tone. 'I didn't mean to be pushing things...'

'I know you didn't'.

I moved back down the corridor to the master bedroom, and sat on one of the single beds. The mattress felt like a concrete slab. George sat down beside me. He took my hand.

'We can get a proper double bed if you like'.

I shrugged.

'And anything you want to do to this place is fine by me'.

How about burning it to the ground, darling?

'It'll be fine', I said, my voice toneless.

'Of course it will. And we'll be happy here, right?'

I nodded.

'And I know you're going to grow to love it here. Heck, Old Greenwich is a great place to raise a family'.

Heck. I was marrying a man who used the word heck.

But I still didn't attempt to bail out of the wedding. Instead, I calmly upended my life. I handed in my resignation at Saturday/Sunday. I informed my landlord that I would be vacating my apartment. As I had rented it furnished, there was little to pack up. Just some books, my Victrola and my collection of records, a few family photos, three suitcases' worth of clothing, my typewriter. Looking at my small pile of possessions made me think, I travel light.

Finally, three days before the ceremony, I conjured up the nerve to tell Eric about my impending move to Old Greenwich. My delay in informing him of this news was a strategic one - as I knew he would become vehement as soon as he heard.

Which, of course, he did.

'Have they railroaded you into this move?' he asked angrily, pacing my packed-up apartment.

'George's parents simply offered us this charming little house as a wedding gift, and I thought: why not?'

'That's all there was to it?'

'Yes'.

He looked at me with deep scepticism. 'You - the most diehard New Yorker imaginable - simply decided to close down your existence in Manhattan and move to goddamn Old Greenwich just because Georgie-boy's parents gave you a house? I don't believe it'.

'I thought it was time for a change', I said, trying to sound calm. 'And I am looking forward to the peace and quiet'.

'Oh please, S - cut the serenity crap. You don't want to be in Connecticut. I know that. You know that'.

'It's a gamble, but it could turn out wonderfully'.

'I said it once. I said it before. You can walk away now, and I will support you in every way I can'.

I touched my stomach. 'I don't have a choice in the matter'.

'You do. You just don't see it'.

'Believe me, I see it. But I just can't make that leap of imagination. I have to do what's expected of me'.

'Even if it ruins your life?'

I bit hard on my lip and turned away, my eyes hot with tears.

'Please stop', I said.

He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. For the first time ever, I shrugged him off.

'I'm sorry', he said.

'Not as sorry as me'.

'We all ruin our lives in some way, I guess...'

'Is that supposed to make me feel better?'

'No. It's supposed to make me feel better'.

I managed a laugh. 'You're right', I finally said. 'In some way or another, we all mess things up. Only some of us do it more comprehensively than others'.

To Eric's infinite credit, he never again reproached me about marrying George and moving to Connecticut. Three days after that difficult conversation in my apartment, he put on his only suit, a clean white shirt, and (for him) a subdued tie, and walked me down the aisle at the Marble Collegiate Church. George was in an ill-fitting cutaway (with a high-collar shirt) that accented his schoolboy chubbiness. The minister was a bored man with thinning hair and bad dandruff. He read the service in a reedy monotone, and at speed. From start to finish, the entire ceremony took fifteen minutes. As there were only twelve invited guests, the church seemed very cavernous - our vows echoing through the rows of empty-pews. It was very lonely indeed.

The reception afterwards was also a rushed affair. It was held in a private dining room at the Plaza. Mr and Mrs Grey weren't exactly the most welcoming of hosts. They didn't try to make conversation with Eric, or with my friends from Saturday/ Sunday. George's chums from the bank were also exceptionally stiff. Before the dinner, they huddled together in a corner, talking quietly among themselves, occasionally emitting a sharp communal snigger of laughter. I was certain they were articulating what everyone at this joyless event was thinking, so this is what's known as a shotgun marriage.

Only, of course, this being a WASP shotgun marriage, everyone was carrying on as if it was a perfectly straightforward event.

There was a sit-down meal. There was a toast from Mr Grey. Like everything else that day, it was emotionless and brisk: 'Please raise your glasses to welcome Sara to our family. We hope that she and George will be happy'.

That was it. George's toast was almost as phlegmatic: 'I just want to say that I am the luckiest man in the world, and I know that Sara and I will make a great team. And I want you all to know that we're operating an open-door policy in Old Greenwich - so we're going to expect lots of visitors real soon'.

I glanced across the table and saw my brother roll his eyes. Then he realized that I saw him being caustic, and he gave me a guilty smile. That one small private moment aside, he really had been a model of tact and diplomacy all afternoon. Even though he looked utterly respectable in his black suit, Mr and Mrs Grey still eyed him with anxious distaste - as if he was some sort of strange left-wing alien, about to jump on a table and hector us with passages from Das Kapital. At the reception, however, he made a point of chatting with my parents-in-law, and even managed to wangle a small laugh or two from them. This was an astonishing phenomenon - discovering that the Greys had a sense of humor - and I cornered Eric as he crossed the room en route to the bar for fresh drinks, whispering:

'What did you slip into their wine?'

'I was simply telling them how much they reminded me of The Magnificent Ambersons'.

I stifled a laugh.

'I'm glad to see you still have a sense of the comedic', he said. 'You're going to need it'.

'It'll be fine', I said, sounding unconvinced.

'And if it's not fine, you can always run back to me'.

I clutched his hands in mine. 'You're the best'.

He arched his eyebrows. 'I'm glad you finally figured that out'.

Eric did have one slight moment of mischief, when George called upon him 'to speak for the bride's family'. Standing up, he raised his glass and said, 'The best quote about domicile conjugate came from that very short Frenchman, Toulouse-Lautrec, who said that "marriage is a dull meal, preceded by dessert". I'm certain this will not be the case with George and Sara'.

Well, I thought it was witty - though most of the other guests coughed nervously after Eric sat down again. Then George and I cut the cake. We posed for a few photographs. The cake was served with coffee. Ten minutes later, Mr and Mrs Grey stood up, indicating it was time to draw things to a close. So we said our goodbyes. My father-in-law gave me a fast peck on the forehead, but had no words of luck or farewell for me. Mrs Grey air-kissed my cheeks, and said, 'You did fine, dear. Keep doing fine, and we will get along very well'.

Then Eric came over, embraced me, and whispered, 'Don't let the bastards get you down'.

He left. The room emptied out. The reception had started at 5.30 p.m. It was now eight o'clock, and it was over. There was nothing left for us to do but retreat upstairs to the 'honeymoon suite' which George had booked for us that night.

So upstairs we went. George disappeared into the bathroom and emerged in his pajamas. I disappeared into the bathroom and undressed, then slipped on a robe. I re-entered the room to find George already in bed. I unfastened the robe and slid into bed next to him, naked. He pulled me close to him. He began to kiss my face, my neck, my breasts. He unfastened the fly of his pajamas. He spread my legs and climbed on top of me. A minute later, he emitted a small groan and rolled off me. Then he tucked himself back into his pajama bottom, kissed the back of my neck, and wished me 'good night'.

It took a moment or two for me to realize that he had passed out. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Eight forty. Eight forty on a Saturday night - my damn wedding night - and my husband is already asleep?

I shut my eyes and tried to join him in early-to-bed unconsciousness. I failed. Opening my eyes again, I got out of bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I ran a bath. As the water cascaded out of the tap, I suddenly did something I had been threatening to do for the past few hours: I started to weep.

Within moments, the weeping became uncontrollable, and so loud that it must have been discernible over the sound of running water. But there was no sudden knock at the bathroom door, followed by a huge reassuring hug from George, telling me everything was going to be all right.

Because, of course, George was a very deep sleeper. If the loud Niagara of open taps didn't wake him, then why should he even hear his wife sobbing?

Eventually, I managed to regain control of myself. I turned off the taps. I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were red, my wedding makeup was streaked. I slid into the bath. I took a wash towel, dipped it in the hot water, then draped it over my face. I stared up into its white emptiness. Thinking, I have made the worst mistake of my life.

Too fast, too fast. Everything happened too fast. He made love too fast. We got engaged too fast. I agreed to this wedding too fast. He fell asleep too fast.

And now...

Now I was trapped... though, of course, it was me who had trapped myself.

The honeymoon wasn't a great success either. The hotel which Mrs Grey had suggested in Provincetown was an elderly inn, run by an elderly couple and catering largely for elderly visitors. It was shabby genteel. Our bed had a sagging mattress. The sheets stank of mildew. The bathroom was down the hall from our room. There were rust stains in the bathtub, and the sink had chipped enamel. As it was the off-season there were few places open in Provincetown for dinner, so we were forced to make do with the food at the inn - all of which was heavily boiled. It rained for three of the five days we were there - but we did manage to get a few walks in on the beach. Otherwise, we sat in the lounge of the inn, reading. George tried to be cheerful. I tried to be cheerful. I also managed to get him to make love to me without his pajamas. It was still over within a minute. I asked him not to roll over and play dead afterwards. He apologized. Profusely. Instead he put his arms around me, holding me tight. Within moments, he was fast asleep - and I was trapped in his arms. I did not sleep well that night. Nor, for that matter, did I sleep well any night in Provincetown, thanks to the droopy bed, the bad food, the charmless atmosphere of the inn, and the fact that the true reality of marriage to George was beginning to hit.

The five nights came to an end. We boarded a bus which took five hours to drive the length of Cape Cod to Boston. We caught a train south. We arrived into Old Greenwich just before midnight. At that hour, there were no cabs at the station, so we had to carry our bags the ten minutes it took to walk up Park Avenue. As we approached our house, all I could think was, I will die here.

All right, I was being a little melodramatic. But the house seemed so drab, so poky, so damn cheerless. Inside, assorted boxes and suitcases from our respective New York apartments lay piled up in the living room. I looked at them and thought, I could call the movers tomorrow and have all my stuff picked up while George was at work, and be gone before he arrived home that night.

But where was I going to go?

In our bedroom, the two single beds were separated by a bedside table. When I first saw the house with George, he said that our first order of business upon moving in was to remove that table and push the beds together. But we were so tired after the twelve-hour journey from Provincetown that we simply slipped into our respective beds and fell asleep instantly. When I woke the next morning, there was a note awaiting me on the table:

Darling:

Off to the city to bring in the bacon. And as you were sleeping so peacefully, I decided I could fry the bacon myself. Back on the 6.12.

Love and kisses...

Off to the city to bring in the bacon. Did this man have no sense of irony whatsoever?

I spent the day unpacking. I took a walk over to Sound Beach Avenue - Old Greenwich's Main Street - and did some shopping. Back in' 47, this corner of Connecticut had yet to become a busy dormitory community for Manhattan, so Old Greenwich still retained a small-town atmosphere. As befitting all small towns, all the shopkeepers quickly gauged that I was a newcomer, and turned on the communal charm.

'Oh, you're the gal who married Old Man Grey's son, and is living on Park Avenue', said the woman in Cuff's - the local stationery shop, and the only place in town that sold the New York Times.

'Yes, I'm Sara Grey', I said, stumbling over my new last name.

'Nice having you in town. Hope you'll be real happy here'.

'Well, it's certainly a friendly place', I said, hoping I sounded sincere.

'Friendly it is. And great for raising kids'. She glanced at my midsection, which had yet to show a telltale bulge. She tried to repress a smirk. 'If, of course, you're planning to have kids so soon after the wedding'.

'You never know', I said quietly.

In every shop on Sound Beach Avenue, I was greeted with the same question: 'New in town?' When I explained who I was, a knowing smile would follow, along with a pleasantly pointed comment like: 'Heard you had a real nice little wedding'.

Or: 'My, that was a whirlwind romance you and George had'.

By the end of this first shopping expedition, I felt as if I should wear a sign around my neck which read: Just Married and Pregnant. More worryingly, I had a stab of despair as I thought that the eight stores which lined Sound Beach Avenue would be my world.

George arrived home off the 6.12 from Grand Central Station, bearing flowers. After giving me a kiss on the lips, he noticed that half the boxes and suitcases on the living room floor had been cleared.

'Been unpacking already?' he asked.

'Yes - I put most of my things away'.

'Good work', he said. 'And you can tackle all of my clothes tomorrow. And honey, if you wouldn't mind giving the suits a light pressing...'

'Oh, sure, I guess'.

'Great, great. Listen, I'm going upstairs to change. How about making us a celebratory martini for our first full evening in at our new house'.

'A martini? Okay'.

'Not too dry. My sweet tooth is partial to vermouth. And four olives, if we've got any'.

'We don't, I'm afraid'.

'Hey, no problem. Just add them to your shopping list tomorrow. And hey - forgot to ask... what's for dinner?'

'Uh, I bought some lamb chops and broccoli...'

'Oh heck, meant to tell you - I really hate broccoli...'

'Uh, sorry...'

'Hey, how were you to know? Meat and potatoes - that's my style. You know how to make a meatloaf ?'

'Not really'.

'Oh, it's a cinch. I'll have Bea - Mom's cook - give you a call tomorrow, and tell you her top-secret meatloaf recipe. And hon...'

'Yes?' I said, my voice now muffled.

'If I eat after seven at night, I just don't sleep real good. So if you could aim to have dinner on the table no later than six forty-five, well that would be great'.

'I'll do my best'.

He leaned over and kissed my forehead. 'A guy can't ask for anything more than that'.

He went upstairs to change. I retreated to the kitchen and assumed my new role as housewife. I put the lamb chops in the oven to broil. I peeled the potatoes and plunged them into a pot of boiling water. I found a glass pitcher, a bottle of Gilbey's Gin and one of vermouth. I mixed a large pitcher of martinis. I suddenly felt the need for strong alcohol.

George complimented me on my cocktails, gently reminding me again to 'get those olives' in the morning. He liked the lamb chops, but hinted they could be a little more well-done ('I really like my meat scorched'). My mashed potatoes, however, didn't pass muster ('A little lumpy, don't you think, hon? Anyway, I'm really a roasted potato guy'). I hadn't done anything for dessert, which disappointed him... 'but hey, it's the first time you've cooked for me as man and wife, so gosh, why should I expect you to know my likes and dislikes. It's a learning curve, right?'

I smiled. Tightly. Just like George's mother.

'Get a chance to look around Old Greenwich?' he asked.

'Yes. It's very... quaint'.

'Quaint', he said, rolling the word around his tongue. 'That's the perfect word, all right. I told you you'd like it up here'.

'Everyone in town seemed to know who I was'.

'Well, it is a small place. Word travels fast'.

'Evidently - as everyone also seemed to know that I was pregnant'.

'Oh', he said, worried.

'Now I wonder how that little tidbit of news got around the community'.

'I don't know'.

'Don't you?'

'What are you implying?'

'I'm implying nothing. I'm just wondering...'

'I'll tell you what probably happened. People heard about us getting married so quickly, so they just put two and two together'.

'Unless, of course, somebody let slip with our little secret'.

'Who would do that?'

'Your mother'.

'That's a horrible thing to say'.

'It's just a speculation...'

'Why on earth would she be so vindictive?'

'It's her style... not to mention her way of putting me in my place. In fact, if I had the money, I'd put a thousand dollars on the fact that she tipped someone in town off about my pregnancy, knowing full well that it would spread like cancer...'

'Why are you doing this?' he said, his tone now sharp.

'Like I said before, I'm just speculating...'

'Well stop speculating now. I won't allow it'.

I stared at him, wide-eyed. 'You won't what?'

He took a deep breath, and tried diplomacy. 'All I'm saying here is this: Mother may have her difficult side, but she is not hateful. Anyway, she loves you...'

'Now that's funny'.

'I didn't know I was marrying a cynic'.

'And I didn't know I was marrying a momma's boy'.

He turned away, as if slapped.

'I'm sorry', I said.

'That's okay', he said.

But we both knew it really wasn't.

When I woke the next morning at nine, there was a note on my pillow:

Hey, sleepy head!

Am I going to be cooking bacon every morning?

Bea will be calling this morning with that recipe for meatloaf. Really look forward to sampling yours tonight. Hugs and kisses...

Yes, you are going to be frying your own bacon every morning. Because there's no way I'm getting up early just to be your very own short order cook.

Bea called later that morning... right after I had finished putting away the last of George's clothes. She sounded like a woman in her fifties - with a heavy Southern accent and the sort of deferential manners that put me in mind of Hattie McDaniel in Gone With the Wind. She called me 'Miz Grey'. She referred to my husband as 'Mistah George'. She told me that she'd been 'cookin' for Mistah George ever since he was a li'l child', and how he had 'the biggest darn sweet tooth' she'd ever seen. She also informed me that as long as I kept that sweet tooth of his happy, I'd keep Mistah George real happy. I promised her I'd try my best.

Then she gave me her meatloaf recipe. It was long and involved. It necessitated the use of several cans of Campbell's Condensed Tomato Soup, and at least two pounds of ground beef. I'd always hated meatloaf. I now knew I would grow to loathe it.

After taking down the recipe, I walked into the village and dropped all of George's suits at the local cleaners - because there was no way I was also going to be his valet. Then I bought all the necessary ingredients for the meatloaf, not to mention a jar of olives, and a seven-layer cake at the local bakery. Walking back to the house, I passed a garage which was also selling bicycles. There was a used ladies' Schwinn - painted black with high handlebars. There were a pair of wicker panniers on either side of the back wheel - making it the perfect bike for shopping. It was in good shape - and though twenty dollars wasn't a cheap price for a used bike, I still felt I was getting a reasonable deal, especially as the garage owner assured me he would service the bike himself. So I handed him the money, loaded my groceries into both panniers, and cycled off down Sound Beach Avenue.

Instead of heading for home, I biked to the end of the main street - past the local high school, the local small hospital, and several substantial houses - then turned left and pushed on for over a mile until I came to a set of gates which announced my arrival at Todd's Point Beach: Residents Only.

As it was late April, the guard at the gate wasn't on duty, so I cycled right on, past a parking lot, and then turned left. Instantly I braked. Instantly I felt the first smile cross my lips in days. Because there, in front of me, was a long smooth strip of white sand, and the deep blue waters of Long Island Sound.

I parked the bike against a wooden fence, pulled off my shoes, and felt the sand creep between my toes. It was a mild day, the sun was at full altitude, the sky was clear. I took in several deep lungfuls of sea air, then began to hike down the beach. It was about a mile long. I meandered slowly, emptying my brain, enjoying the first moments of calm I'd felt ever since the discovery that I was pregnant. At the far end of the beach, I sat down in the sand and spent around a half-hour doing nothing but staring out at the tidal waters of the Sound - the metronomic ebb-and-flow of the surf lulling me into a temporary state of placidity. Thinking:

This beach will be my safety valve, my escape hatch. This beach will be the way I survive George, his family, Old Greenwich, meatloaf.

I returned to the house and followed Bea's recipe to the letter: take two pounds of ground beef, mix it by hand with one minced onion, salt, pepper, and finely crushed cornflakes (yes: cornflakes), and one third of a can of Campbell's Condensed Tomato Soup. Shape it into a loaf. Place it inside a baking pan. Use the remaining two thirds of a can of soup to coat it completely. Then bake in an oven for thirty-five minutes.

Knowing that George would be arriving home on the 6.12, I put the meatloaf in the oven at 6.05... which would give me ample time to meet my husband's 'Dinner before Seven' deadline. He walked in through the door at 6.20. He was carrying flowers. He gave me a peck on the cheek.

'Something smells good', he said. 'Bea must have called'.

'She did', I said, handing him a martini.

'You got the olives!' he said, his voice fulsome - as if I'd done something extraordinary, like splitting the atom.

'Your wish is my command', I said lightly.

He looked at me carefully. 'That's a joke, right?'

'Yes, George - that's a joke'.

'Just making sure. You're a gal full of surprises'.

'Oh really?' I said. 'What kind of surprises?'

He took a sip of his martini, then said, 'Like the new bicycle out front'.

'It's not new, George. It's second-hand'.

'It's new to me, because I haven't seen it before'.

He smiled. Now it was my turn to take a long sip of my martini.

'I only bought it today'.

'Obviously. Was it expensive?'

'Twenty dollars'.

'That's not cheap'.

'It's a good bicycle. You want me to be riding something safe, don't you?'

'That's not the issue'.

'So what is the issue?'

'The fact that you bought it without consulting me'.

I looked at him with something approaching shock. 'You're kidding me?' I said.

His smile remained fixed. 'All I'm saying is, if you're going to go out and make a major household purchase like a bicycle, I'd like to be told...'

'It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I saw the bicycle in Flannery's Garage, the price was right, so I bought it. Anyway, I need a bicycle to get around town...'

'I'm not disputing that'.

'Then what are you disputing?'

'Twenty dollars of household money was spent by you without...'

I cut him off. 'Do you hear what you are saying?'

'There's no need for that tone, Sara'.

'Yes, there is. Because you are being absurd. Listen to yourself. You sound so generous, so benevolent, such a loving husband...'

His face fell. 'I didn't know you had such a cruel streak', he said.

'Cruel streak! All I'm doing is responding to you saying dumb things like I need to have your written approval before I dare bankrupt us by spending an extravagant twenty dollars on a bicycle...'

Silence. Finally, he said, 'I never asked for written approval'.

That's when I threw back the rest of my drink and stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me, and falling face down on the bed. After a minute there was a tentative knock on the door.

'You're not crying, are you?' he asked, sounding anxious.

'Of course I'm not crying. I'm too angry'.

'Can I come in?'

'It's your room too'.

The door opened. He tentatively came over to the bed. He had my martini glass in his right hand. It had been refilled.

'A peace offering', he said, holding it out to me. I sat up and took it. He crouched down next to me, and touched his glass against mine. 'Everyone says the first decade of marriage is always the worst'.

I tried to smile.

'That was meant as a joke', he said.

'I know'.

'We're not getting off to a very good start, are we?'

'No, we're not'.

'How can I make things better?'

'Stop treating me like your housekeeper, for a start. Yes, I am at home, which means I will take care of things like the shopping and the overall management of the house. But just because I am now financially dependent on you doesn't automatically mean that it is my duty to serve you'.

'I'd never treat you like a servant'.

'Believe me, you were. And I want it to stop now'.

'Fine', he said, looking away like a child who'd just been reprimanded.

'And as regards the issue of money... you will discover that, when it comes to spending, I am true to my New England roots, in that I'm not interested in furs, diamonds, staterooms on the Queen Mary, or keeping up with the Joneses. And I don't think a bicycle exactly qualifies as a frivolous luxury, especially as I'll be using it to get groceries'.

He took my hand. 'You're right. I'm wrong. And I'm sorry'.

'You really mean that?'

'Of course I do. I'm just not used to living with a wife'.

'I'm not a wife. I am Sara Smythe. There is a difference. Work it out'.

'Sure, sure', he said.

We both sipped our martinis.

'I want this to work, Sara'.

I touched my midsection. 'It has to work. For obvious reasons'.

'We'll make it work. I promise'.

He kissed me lightly on the lips, and stroked my hair.

'Good', I said, caressing his cheek with my hand.

'I'm glad we had this talk'.

'Me too'.

He pulled me towards him, and held me tight. Then he said, 'So, is the meatloaf just about done?'

It was. We went downstairs and ate. He approved of my meatloaf. He was pleased with the seven-layer cake, and laughed when I informed him of Bea's comments about his sweet tooth. We went to bed. We made love. This time he managed to hold on for almost two minutes. He seemed genuinely pleased about this. Then he kissed me fully on the lips, got up and bumped against the bedside table that separated our two beds. As he slipped beneath his blankets, he said, 'I must move that damn thing sometime'.

I slept well that night. But early the next morning, George shook me awake. As I came to, I could see he looked deeply upset about something.

'What's happened, darling?' I asked.

'My suits...'

'What?'

'My suits. Where have you put my suits?'

'I took them to the cleaner's'.

'You what?'

I was now awake. 'You asked me to get them pressed, so I took them to the cleaner's...'

'I asked you to press them yourself'.

'I don't know how to press suits'.

'You don't? Really?'

'Sorry - they didn't teach me such fundamental things at Bryn Mawr'.

'There you go again, with that nasty tongue of yours'.

'I'm only being nasty because you are being so incredibly thoughtless'.

' Thoughtless? What the hell am I going to wear today to the office?'

'What about the suit you were wearing yesterday?'

'It's wrinkled'.

'Then press it yourself'.

He went to the closet and angrily pulled it off the rail. 'All right then, I will', he said. 'Because, at least, I know how to press a suit'.

'Well, it's great to discover that a Princeton education taught you something'.

I fell back on my pillow, pulling the blankets over my head. I stayed in that position for nearly half-an-hour - until I heard the front door slam, as George went off to work. As I lay there, my stomach did somersaults. I felt sick. But it wasn't morning sickness from which I was suffering. It was despair.

Naturally, George was guilty as hell about this early morning exchange - and a large bouquet of flowers arrived by messenger early that afternoon, accompanied by a card:

I am a well-pressed fool.

And I love you.

At least it was moderately witty.

When George came home that night, he acted as if he had gone through a Pauline conversion. Naturally he brought another peace offering of flowers, augmented by a big box of chocolates... indicating just how guilty he was feeling.

'Two bouquets in one day?' I said, nodding towards the twelve long-stemmed roses which had arrived that morning. 'It's starting looking like a mob funeral around here'.

His face fell. 'You don't like the flowers?'

'I was just trying to be funny'.

'Of course, of course', he said. 'I was just checking'.

'Thank you'.

'No - thank you'.

'For what?'

'For putting up with me. I know it can't be easy'.

'All I want is a degree of equitableness between us'.

'You've got it. I promise'.

'Honestly?'

He took me in his arms.

'I've gotten this all wrong. And I'm going to change that'.

'Good', I said, and kissed his forehead.

'I love you'.

'You too', I said quickly, hoping I didn't sound unconvincing. But George had his mind on other things, as he asked, 'Is that meatloaf I smell?'

I nodded.

'You are wonderful'.

For the next few weeks, George really did make an effort to establish an entente cordiale between us. He excised all domestic demands from his conversation. He didn't ask Bea to call me with more of his favorite recipes. He accepted the fact that I couldn't iron a suit. He agreed when I suggested we start spending five dollars twice a week for a cleaning woman. He tried to be attentive - especially as my pregnancy had now become visible, and I was starting to tire easily. He tried to be loving and considerate.

In short, he tried. And I tried too. I tried to adjust to a life at home; a life away from the edgy rhythms and manic diversity of a great city. I tried to adjust to the business of running a house; to being that creature I always secretly vowed never to become: a homemaker in the suburbs.

Most of all, I tried to adjust to marriage - to that sense of shared space, shared preoccupations, shared purpose and destiny. Only I knew deep down that there was no real sense of shared anything. Had it not been for our little biological accident, our engagement would have collapsed within months (especially after I'd gotten a whiff of just how controlling his mother could be). But now, here we were, playing house, trying to pretend that we were happy newlyweds, yet also secretly knowing that all this was fraudulent. Because there was no real basis between us - no solid foundation of camaraderie or true rapport. Let alone love.

I sensed that George knew this too. Within a month of our wedding, we started to run out of things to say to each other. Yes, we made conversation, but it was forced, labored, prone to longueurs. We didn't share each other's interests. His Connecticut friends were country club types. The men all seemed to talk about golf, the Dow Jones average, and the ongoing horror that was Harry S. Truman. The women traded recipes and maternity tips, and planned coffee mornings, and looked upon me with great suspicion. Not that I was flashing my former Greenwich Village credentials in their face. I went to three coffee mornings, and tried to join in the conversations about the perils of stretch marks and the impossibility of making a really moist Angel Food cake. But I know that they smelled my disinterest. I wasn't 'one of them'. I struck them as bookish, and reserved, and not at all enthralled by my newfound status as a kept woman. I really did work hard at 'fitting in', but ambivalence is always sniffed out. Especially when it's a clique that's doing the sniffing.

Eric insisted on paying me a visit once a week. He'd catch a late morning train up from Grand Central, and spend the entire day with me, grabbing the 6.08 that night back to the city... just in time to avoid having to deal with George. I'd make us lunch. Then, if the weather was good, I'd arrange for him to have use of a bicycle from Flannery's Garage (the owner, Joe Flannery, and I had become friends), and we'd head off to Todd's Point, squandering the entire afternoon at the beach.

'I'll tell you something, S', he said one balmy Thursday afternoon in mid-May, while we were sprawled on the blanket, staring up at an early summer sun. 'Old Greenwich may be the most white-bread place on earth... but I sure as hell could get used to the beach'.

'This beach is my sanity', I said.

'It's that bad, is it?'

'Well, he's not beating me with a lead pipe or chaining me to a radiator...'

'At least that would be colorful...'

I laughed loudly. 'You have a serious sick streak, Eric'.

'You've only figured that out now?'

'No - but maybe when I was in the Sodom and Gomorrah of Manhattan, your wit didn't seem so extreme'.

'Whereas here, in WASP Central...'

'Oh, if you lived here, you'd be considered the Antichrist. They'd probably have you in the stocks on the village green'.

'How do you stand it?'

'I come to this beach a lot'.

'Do you miss the city?'

'Only five times an hour'.

'Then tell him you want to move back'.

'I might as well say that I want to move to Moscow. Anyway, his mother wouldn't hear of it. And if Julia Grey won't hear of something, then the matter is closed'.

'I bet she's subtly meddlesome'.

'Not subtly. Unapologetically. For the first two weeks or so, she left us alone. But now that the honeymoon is well and truly over, she calls me up at least once a day'.

'Lucky you'.

'I've never said this about somebody before... but I actually hate her'.

'It's that bad?'

'Yes - it's really that bad'.

From all indications, it was going to get worse. Because now that I was legally ensconced with her son, Mrs Grey felt it her right to direct all aspects of my life. She also made it very clear that her only real interest in me was in my role as the Grey Family Breeder.

The daily phone call would come promptly every morning at nine a.m.

'Hello, dear', she'd say briskly. Then, without any of the usual pleasantries, she'd immediately launch into her agenda du jour.

'I've made an appointment for you with an excellent obstetrician in Greenwich'.

'But I like the doctor I've been seeing locally'.

'You mean Dr Reid?'

'Yes, I mean Peter Reid. His office is a five-minute walk from my house - and, more to the point, I'm really comfortable with him'.

'I'm sure he's very nice. But do you know where he went to medical school? McGill in Montreal'.

'McGill is an excellent university. And, to the best of my knowledge, babies are born in Canada. So I'm certain Dr Reid...'

She cut me off.

'My dear, McGill may be a good university, but it is not an American university. Whereas the specialist I'm sending you to - Dr Eisenberg - went to Harvard. You have heard of Harvard, haven't you, dear?'

I said nothing.

'He also happens to be chief of obstetrics at Doctors Hospital, with practices both in Manhattan and Greenwich. And he's Jewish'.

'Why should that matter?'

'Jews always make the best doctors. It's something about their innate sense of social inferiority: it makes them far more conscientious and rigorous. Because, of course, they always feel the need to try harder and prove a point. Especially in the case of Dr Eisenberg - who's still trying to gain membership of the Greenwich Country Club. You don't have any objections about being attended to by a Jew, do you, dear?'

'Of course not. What I object to is being told which doctor I will be attending'.

'But dear, we are paying for your care...'

'It's my husband who's paying...'

'No, dear. George's salary at the bank might stretch to cover the services of Dr Reid, but it certainly wouldn't pay for an eminent man like Milton Eisenberg'.

'Then I won't go to Dr Eisenberg'.

'Yes you will, dear. Because it is our grandchild. And we must have the best for him'.

'Let me be the judge of which doctor is the best for...'

'The matter is closed, dear. The appointment with Dr Eisenberg is at ten thirty tomorrow morning. I will send a taxi to collect you at ten'.

Then she put down the phone without saying goodbye. When I vented my anger that night at George, he just shrugged and said, 'But she means well'.

'No, she doesn't'.

'She wants you to be seen by the best doctor imaginable'.

'She wants to manipulate everything'.

'That's unfair

'Unfair? Unfair! Don't you dare talk to me about unfair'.

'Humor her, please. It will make everyone's life easier'.

So I found myself transferred over to Dr Eisenberg - a curt, gruff man in his early sixties, devoid of any warmth, yet brimming with his own self-importance. No wonder Mrs Grey approved of him.

Every day there was a phone call. Every day there was some new matter that Mrs Grey needed to discuss with me. Most of the time, the subject of the call was meaningless.

'Hello, dear. I want you to go to Cuff's on Sound Beach Avenue and buy your husband this morning's edition of the Wall Street Journal. There's a story about a Princeton classmate of his, Prescott Lawrence, who is doing marvelous things on Wall Street'.

'I know George gets the Wall Street Journal at the bank'.

'But maybe he won't get it today. So be a good girl and pop round to Cuff's, and get the paper'.

'Fine, fine', I said, then completely ignored the directive. Later that afternoon, there was a knock on the door. It was a paperboy, with a copy of the Wall Street Journal in his hand.

'Here's the paper you ordered', he said.

'I didn't order it'.

'Well, someone did'.

An hour later, the phone call came. 'Dear - did you get the paper?'

I held my tongue.

'Do make certain George reads that piece about Prescott Lawrence. And please don't make a fuss about such a simple little request in the future'.

Day in, day out the calls came. Eventually, around four months into my pregnancy, I snapped. It was a hot day in July - the temperature inching towards ninety, the humidity touching similar figures. The house was stifling. I was feeling top-heavy and bloated. Our bedroom had become a sweat box. I hadn't slept well for days.

Then the morning phone call came from Mrs Grey.

'Morning, dear...'

Before she had time to launch into this morning's demand, I hung up. The phone rang again a few seconds later. I ignored it. Five minutes later, it rang again - but I didn't pick it up. In fact, I didn't answer it for the balance of the day - even though it continued to clang into life every twenty minutes or so.

Around three that afternoon, the constant ringing finally stopped. I felt enormous relief. I had won a small victory. She'd finally got the point. From now on, she wouldn't badger me.

Around six twenty that night, the phone clanged back into life. Thinking it might be George, calling to say he was delayed at the office, I answered it. That was a mistake.

'Hello, dear'.

Her voice was as composed as ever.

'Would you mind explaining to me why you hung up on me this morning?'

'Because I didn't want to talk to you'.

There was a pause. I could sense that she was a little stunned by that statement. Finally she said, 'That is not acceptable'.

'I don't care if it is acceptable or not. I will simply not deal with your appalling behavior towards me anymore'.

She let out a small, low laugh.

'My, my, we are feeling emboldened tonight, aren't we?'

'Not emboldened. Just fed up'.

'Well, alas, I am afraid you will simply have to put up with my alleged meddlesome nature. Because you have married my son and...'

'Marrying your son doesn't give you the right to tell me what to do'.

'On the contrary, I have every right. You are carrying our grandchild...'

'He or she is my child'.

'Try fleeing this marriage and you will discover quick enough whose child he is'.

'I am not planning to flee this marriage'.

'Yes, you are. Why else is your brother visiting you at least once a week?'

'Because he's my brother, that's why. Because I'm lonely here'.

'That's because nobody likes you, dear. You don't fit in... something I'm certain you've complained about to your very dear brother during those long afternoons you spend together at Todd's Point...'

'How the hell do you know about my brother's visits...'

'It's a small town. People talk. Most especially, they talk to me. And dear, never use profanity with me again. I won't stand for it'.

'I don't give a damn what you will or will not stand for...'

'Oh yes you do', she said mildly. 'Because know this: if you want to leave this marriage, that is fine by me, and it's also fine by Mr Grey. Just leave us the child...'

It took a moment for this to register.

'What did you just say?' I said, hushed.

Her tone remained cordial, mild. 'I said, I am very happy for you to leave this marriage after the birth of your child... on the condition, of course, that we retain custody of the child'.

'We?'

'George, of course... legally speaking'.

The phone trembled in my hand. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

'Do you hear what you're saying?' I asked.

'What an extraordinary question', she said with a mock laugh. 'Of course I hear what I'm saying. The real question is: do you, dear?'

'Say I simply vanished...'

'To where? A cabin in the woods? Some one-room apartment in a big city? You know we'd spare no expense finding you. And we would most certainly find you. When we did, the very fact of your disappearance would strengthen our legal case against you. Of course, you might consider waiting until the child is born, and then suing George for divorce. But before you choose that route, do remember this: Mr Grey is a partner in one of Wall Street's most venerable law firms. If necessary, the full legal artillery of that firm can be turned against you. Believe me, a divorce court would have you declared an unfit mother before you had a chance to exhale'.

The phone began to tremble again. I suddenly felt ill.

'Still there, dear?' she asked.

I couldn't speak.

'Have I upset you, dear?'

Silence.

'Oh my, I sense that I have. Whereas my purpose was simply to point out the stark alternatives should you attempt to do anything silly. But you're not planning to do anything silly, are you, dear?'

Silence.

'I want an answer'.

Silence. I couldn't open my mouth.

'An answer. Now'.

'No', I whispered, 'I won't do anything silly'. Then I put down the phone.

When George came home that night, he found me curled up in bed, a blanket pulled tight around me. He looked alarmed.

'Darling? Darling?'

He shook me by the shoulder. I looked at him blankly.

'Darling, what's happened?'

I didn't answer him. Because I didn't feel able to answer him. The ability to speak had left me. I was here, but I was not here.

'Darling, please, tell me what's wrong'.

I keep staring at him. My mind felt curiously empty. A void.

'Oh God...' George said and ran out of the room. I nodded off. When I came to, help had arrived - in the form of my mother-in-law. She was standing at the edge of my bed, George at her side. As I came to, George was kneeling by my side, stroking my head.

'Are you better, darling?' he asked.

I still felt unable to respond. He turned back to his mother, looking deeply worried. She nodded her head towards the door, motioning for him to leave. As soon as he was gone, she walked over and sat down on George's bed. She looked at me for a very long time. Her gaze was dispassionate.

'I suppose I am to blame for all this', she said, her voice as temperate as ever.

I turned my eyes downwards. I couldn't bear looking at her.

'I do know you are there, dear', she said. 'Just as I also know that these sorts of little afflictions are usually a sign of deep personal weakness, and are often self-inflicted. So please understand: you are not fooling me. Not at all'.

I closed my eyes.

'Go on, feign sleep', she said. 'Just as you're feigning this breakdown. Of course, if it was something to do with your pregnancy, I might have a certain sympathy. Mind you, I loathed being pregnant. Loathed every minute of it. I suppose you must hate it too. Especially given how much you hate the family into which you've married'.

She was right about my contempt for her family. However, she was so wrong about my feelings towards my pregnancy. I despised the circumstances in which I had landed myself. The absurdity of my marriage, the abhorrent nature of Mrs Grey... The one thing - the only thing - that was maintaining my sanity was the child I was carrying. I didn't know who or what this child would be. All I knew was that I felt a deep, absolute, unconditional love for him or her. I didn't totally understand this love. If asked, I probably wouldn't have been able to explain it in a rational, straightforward way. Because it wasn't rational or straightforward. It was just all-encompassing. The child was my future, my raison d'etre.

But now, Mrs Grey had blanketed that future with a dark specter.

If you want to leave this marriage, that is fine by me, and it's also fine by Mr Grey. Just leave us the child...

A scenario began to unspool inside my head. The baby is born. I am allowed to hold him for a few minutes. A nurse comes and says that she's bringing him back to the nursery. As soon as he is out of my hands, a bailiff arrives bearing a writ. Mrs Grey has made good on her threat.

Believe me, a divorce court would have you declared an unfit mother before you had a chance to exhale.

A shudder ran through me. I felt as if I had touched a live wire. I clutched myself.

'Feeling cold, dear?' Mrs Grey said. 'Or are you just playacting for my benefit?'

I shut my eyes again.

'All right - be that way. A doctor should be here shortly. But I'm certain he should confirm what I already know: there is nothing physically wrong with you. Still, if you persist in continuing in this absent state, I'm certain there are several good sanitoriums in Fairfield County, where you'd be looked after until the baby arrives... and maybe even afterwards, if your mental state remained unchanged. I'm told that getting someone committed isn't that difficult. Especially if, like you, they are showing all the usual signs of mental distress...'

There was a knock on the door.

'Ah, that must be the doctor'.

The doctor was a solemn, taciturn man in his fifties. He introduced himself to me as Dr Rutan and explained that he was dealing with Dr Eisenberg's house calls this evening. He had all of Eisenberg's warmth and charm. When I didn't answer his first few questions - because I still felt incapable of speech - he didn't express concern or worry. He simply got down to business. He took my pulse, my blood pressure. He listened to my heart. He placed the stethoscope on my expanded abdomen, and listened there too. He did some prodding and poking with his hands. He opened my mouth and - using a tongue depressor and a penlight - he gazed inside. Then he pulled out a small penlight, and shined it in my eyes. Turning towards my husband and mother-in-law, he said, 'Everything is working fine. So either she is having a minor breakdown, or what could best be described as a very big sulk. It's not uncommon during pregnancy. If the woman is of the delicate sort, the whole experience can overwhelm them, throwing everything out of proportion. And so, like little children, they retreat into themselves. And sulk'.

'How long might this go on?' George asked.

'I don't know. Try to keep her fed and quiet. She should pull out of it in a day or two'.

'And if she doesn't?' Mrs Grey asked.

'Then', the doctor said, 'we will consider other medical options'.

I shut my eyes again. Only this time the desired effect happened. I fell into nothingness.

When I opened my eyes again, I knew immediately that something was very wrong. It was the middle of the night. I could hear George snoring softly in the adjoining bed. The room was black. And hot. So hot that I felt sodden. Sodden to the skin. I also felt in urgent need of a toilet. But when I tried to sit up, I felt lightheaded, vertiginous, woozy. Eventually I managed to put my feet on the floor. Standing up took some effort. I tried to take a step and had to steady myself. My little episode earlier in the evening - my absent state, as Mrs Grey called it - must have been more serious than I realized. Because I felt truly weak.

I staggered across the darkened room, feeling my way to the bathroom door with outstretched hands. Reaching it, I stepped inside and flipped the switch. The room convulsed into light.

And I screamed.

Because there - in the bathroom mirror - was a reflection of myself. My face was the color of chalk. My eyes were yellow. And the bottom half of my white nightgown was red. Crimson red. Drenched in blood.

Then I felt as if I was falling into nothingness again. Only this time the plunge was accompanied by a nasty thud. Then the world went dark.

When I snapped back to consciousness, I was in a white room. With harsh white light. And an elderly man in a stiff white jacket beaming a penlight into my eyes. My left arm was strapped to the bed. I noticed a tube protruding from the arm, then a bottle of plasma hanging beside the bed.

'Welcome back', he said.

'Oh... right', I said, utterly incoherent.

'Do you know where you are?'

'Uh... what?'

He spoke loudly, as if I was deaf. 'Do you know where you are?'

'Uh... well... no'.

'You are at Greenwich Hospital'.

This took a moment to sink in.

'Okay'.

'Do you know who I am?' the man asked.

'Should I?'

'We have met before. I am Dr Eisenberg - your obstetrician. Do you know why you're here, Sara?'

'Where am I?'

'As I said before: you are at Greenwich Hospital. Your husband found you on the floor of your bathroom, covered in blood'.

'I remember...'

'You're a very lucky young woman. You went into a dead faint. Had you fallen the wrong way, you could have broken your neck. As it turned out, you just have some minor bruising'.

Clarity was beginning to return. I suddenly felt scared.

'Am I all right?' I asked quietly.

He looked at me carefully.

'As I said, you only suffered some superficial bruising. And you lost quite a bit of blood...'

Now I was scared. And very conscious. 'Doctor, am I all right?'

Eisenberg met my stare. 'You lost the baby'.

I closed my eyes. I felt as if I was falling again.

'I'm sorry', he said.

I had my right hand to my mouth. I bit hard on a knuckle. I didn't want to cry in front of this man.

'I'll come back later', he said and headed towards the door.

Suddenly I asked, 'Was it a boy or a girl?'

He turned around. 'The foetus was only partially formed'.

'Answer me: was it a boy or a girl?'

'A boy'.

I blinked. I bit down on my knuckle again.

'I have some other difficult news', he said. 'Because the foetus was only partially formed, we had to operate to remove it from your womb. During surgery, we discovered that part of the wall of your womb had been badly damaged by the abnormal pregnancy. So damaged, in fact, that it is highly unlikely you'll ever be able to conceive, let alone carry another pregnancy to full term. Understand: this is not a finite diagnosis. But from my clinical experience, the chances of you now being able to have a baby are, I'm afraid, improbable'.

There was a very long silence. He stared down at his shoes. 'Do you have any questions?' he finally asked.

I put the palms of my hands against my eyes, and pressed hard, wanting to black out the world. After a moment, Eisenberg said, 'I'm sure you'd like to be on your own for a while'.

I heard the door shut. I kept my palms pressed against my eyes. Because I couldn't face opening them. I couldn't face anything right now. I was in a nose dive.

The door opened again. I heard George softly say my name. I removed my hands. He came into focus. He was very pale, and looked like he hadn't slept for days. Standing next to him was his mother. I suddenly heard myself say: 'I don't want her here'.

Mrs Grey blanched. 'What was that you said?' she asked.

'Mother...' George said, putting a hand on her arm - a hand which she immediately brushed away.

'Get her the hell out of here now', I shouted.

She calmly approached the bed. 'I will forgive that comment on the grounds that you have been through a traumatic experience'.

'I don't want your forgiveness. Just go'.

Her face flexed into one of her tight little smiles. She bent down close to me. 'Let me ask you something, Sara. Having self-induced this tragedy, are you now using disrespect as a way of dodging the fact that you've become damaged goods?'

That's when I hit her. Using my free hand, I slapped her hard across the face. It caught her off-balance, sending her to the floor. She let out a scream. George came rushing forward, yelling something incoherent. He helped his mother back to her feet, whispering, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry...' in her ear. She turned and faced me, looking disoriented, dumbfounded, robbed of her triumphant malice. George put an arm around her and helped her out the door. A few minutes later, he came back in as rattled as someone who had just walked away from a car wreck.

'One of the nurses is looking after her', he said. 'I said that she took a turn and fell'.

I turned away from him.

'I'm so sorry', he said, approaching me. 'I can't begin to tell you how sorry...'

I cut him off. 'We have nothing more to say to each other'.

He tried to reach for me. I put my arm up to fend him off.

'Darling...' he said.

'Please leave, George'.

'You were right to hit her. She deserved...'

'George, I don't want to talk right now'.

'Fine, fine. I'll come back later. But darling, know this: we're going to be fine. I don't care what Dr Eisenberg says. It's just an opinion. Worst comes to worst, we can always adopt. But, really...'

'George - there's the door. Please use it'.

He heaved a deep sigh. He looked rattled. And scared.

'All right, I'll be back first thing tomorrow'.

'No, George. I don't want to see you tomorrow'.

'Well, I can come back the day after...'

'I don't want to see you again'.

'Don't say that'.

'I'm saying it'.

'I'll do anything...'

'Anything?'

'Yes, darling. Anything'.

'Then I want you to do two things. The first is, call my brother. Tell him what's happened. Tell him everything'.

'Of course, of course. I'll call him as soon as I get home. And the second request?'

'Stay away from me'.

This took a moment to sink in. 'You don't really mean that', he said.

'Yes - I really mean that'.

Silence. I finally looked at him. He was crying.

'I'm sorry', I said.

He rubbed his eyes with his hands. 'I'll do as you ask', he said.

'Thank you'.

He was frozen to the spot, unable to move.

'Goodbye, George', I whispered, then turned away.

After he left, a nurse came in, carrying a small ceramic bowl, containing a syringe and a vial. She placed the bowl on the bedside table, inserted the needle into the rubber top of the vial, inverted it and filled part of the syringe with a viscous fluid.

'What's that?' I asked.

'Something to help you sleep'.

'I don't want to sleep'.

'Doctor's orders'.

Before I could object further, I felt a quick jab in the arm. I was under within seconds. When I came to again, it was morning. Eric was sitting on the edge of my bed. He gave me a sad smile.

'Hi there', he said.

I reached for his hand. He moved closer down the bed, and threaded his fingers through mine. 'Did George call you?' I asked.

'Yes. He did'.

'And did he tell you... ?'

'Yes. He told me'.

Suddenly I was sobbing. Immediately Eric put his arms around me. I buried my head in his shoulder. My sobs quickly escalated. He held me tighter as I cried. I was inconsolable. I had never known such wild, unbridled grief. And I couldn't stop.

I don't know how long I carried on crying. Eric said nothing. No words of consolation or condolence. Because words were meaningless at this moment. I would never have children. That was the terrible fact of the matter. Nothing anyone said could change that. Tragedy renders language impotent.

Eventually I subsided. I let go of Eric and fell back against the pillows. Eric reached out and stroked my face. We said nothing for a long time. I was still in shock. Finally, he broke our silence.

'So...' he said.

'So...' I said.

'My sofa's not the most comfortable bed in the world, but...'

'It will do fine'.

'That's settled then. While I was waiting for you to wake up, I spoke with one of the nurses. They think you'll be ready to leave in about three days. So - if it's okay with you - I'll call George and arrange a time to go to your house in Old Greenwich and pack up your things'.

'It was never my house'.

'George was pretty emotional on the phone. He begged me to get you to reconsider'.

'There is absolutely no chance of that'.

'I intimated that to him'.

'He should marry his mother and get it over with'.

'Why didn't I think of that line?'

I almost managed a small smile.

'It will be good to have you back, S. I've missed you'.

'I've fucked it up, Eric. I've fucked everything up'.

'Don't think that', he said. 'Because it's not true. But do keep using language like that. It dents your refined image. And I approve'.

'I landed myself in this entire disaster'.

'That's an interpretation - and one which is guaranteed to cause you a lot of useless grief'.

'I deserve the grief...'

'Stop it! You deserve none of this. But it's happened. And, in time, you will find a way of dealing with it'.

'I'll never deal with it'.

'You will. Because you have to deal with it. You have no choice'.

'I suppose I could jump out a window'.

'But think of all the bad movies you'd miss'.

This time, I nearly managed a laugh. 'I missed you too, Eric. More than I can say'.

'Give us two weeks together as roommates, and I'm sure we'll end up never talking again'.

'An asteroid will hit Manhattan before that happens. There's a pair of us in it'.

'Nice expression'.

'Yes. The Irish have all the right lines'.

He rolled his eyes and said, 'Yez lives and yez learns'.

'Too damn true'.

I glanced out the window. It was a perfect summer day. A hard blue sky. An incandescent sun. Not a single hint of an inclement future. It was a day when everything should have seemed limitless, possible.

'Tell me something, Eric...'

'Yeah?'

'Is it always so hard?'

'Is what always so hard?'

'Everything'.

He laughed. 'Of course. Haven't you figured that out yet?'

'Sometimes I wonder: will I ever figure anything out?'

He laughed again. 'You know the answer to that question, don't you?'

I kept my gaze on the world beyond. And said,

'Yes, I'm afraid I do'.

Part Three

Sara

One

THE FIRST THING I noticed about Dudley Thomson were his fingers. They were short, stubby, fleshy - like a link of Polish sausages. He had a large oval face. His chin was augmented by two tiers of fat. He had thinning hair, round horn-rimmed glasses, and a very expensive three-piece suit. It was dark grey with a thick chalk pinstripe. I guessed that it was made-to-measure, as it carefully encased his bulky frame. His office was wood paneled, with heavy green velvet curtains, deep leather chairs, a large mahogany desk. It struck me as a small-scale approximation of a London gentlemen's club. In fact, everything about Dudley Thomson reeked of Anglophilia. He looked like an overweight version of T.S. Eliot. Only unlike Mr Eliot he wasn't a poet, dressed in the raiments of an English banker. Rather, he was a divorce lawyer - a partner at Potholm, Grey and Connell; the white-shoe Wall Street firm of which Edwin Grey, Sr, was a senior partner.

I had been summoned by Dudley Thomson to a meeting at his office. It was three weeks after I had been discharged from Greenwich Hospital. I was staying with my brother at his apartment on Sullivan Street, curling up every night on his lumpy sofa. As one of the senior nurses at the hospital had warned me, I would probably go through a period of depression and grief after my release. She was right. I had spent most of the three weeks inside Eric's apartment, only occasionally venturing outside for groceries or an afternoon double feature at the Academy of Music on 14th Street. I really didn't want to be around many people - especially those friends of mine who were married with children. The sight of a baby carriage on the street chilled me. So too did passing a shop which sold maternity outfits or infant paraphernalia. Curiously, I hadn't cried since that outburst in Greenwich Hospital. Instead, I had felt constantly numb, and wanted to do nothing more than sequester myself within the four walls of Eric's place. Which, with my brother's tolerant encouragement, was exactly what I had been doing - squandering the days with a stack of pulp thrillers, and working my way through Eric's extensive record collection. I rarely turned on the radio. I didn't buy a newspaper. I didn't answer the phone (not that it rang very much anyway). Eric - the most patient man on the planet - didn't worry out loud about my solipsism. Though he made subtle enquiries about my well-being, he never once suggested a night out. Nor did he pass a comment about my dazed gloom. He knew what was going on. He knew it had to run its course.

Three weeks into this period of self-incarceration, I received a letter from Dudley Thomson. He explained that he would be representing the Grey family in the divorce settlement and asked me to arrange an appointment with him at my earliest possible convenience. He said I could have my own legal counsel present at this meeting - but suggested that I not go to the expense of hiring a lawyer for this preliminary discussion, as the Greys wanted to settle matters as quickly as possible.

'Hire a lawyer', Eric said after I showed him this letter. 'They want to settle for as little as they can'.

'But I really don't want anything from them'.

'You're entitled to alimony... or at least a sizeable settlement. That's the very least those bastards owe you'.

'I'd rather just walk away...'

'They exploited you...'

'No, they didn't'.

'They used you as a battery hen and...'

'Eric, stop turning this into a class warfare drama. Especially as the Greys and ourselves are basically from the same damn class'.

'You should still take them for every penny possible'.

'No - because that would be unethical. And that's not my style. I know what I want from the Greys. If they give it to me, then this entire matter can be settled without further grief. Believe me, what I want more than anything right now is no further grief'.

'At least find some tough divorce lawyer to have in your corner...'

'I need nobody. That's my new credo, Eric. From now on, I'm depending on no one'.

And so, I made an appointment to see Mr Thomson, and walked into his office without a legal entourage. He was rather surprised by that.

'I actually expected to see you here today with at least one legal counselor', he said.

'Really?' I said. 'After advising me that I needed no counsel present at this interview?'

He flashed me a smile, showing bad dental work (a true sign of his deep Anglophilia). 'I expect no one to really follow my advice', he said.

'Well, I have. So - let's get this over with. Tell me what you are proposing'.

He coughed a bit, and shuffled through a few papers, trying to mask his surprise at my directness. 'The Greys want to be as generous as possible...'

'You mean, George Grey wants to be as generous as possible. I was - am still - married to him, not his family'.

'Yes, yes, of course', he said, sounding a little flustered. 'George Grey wants to offer you a most reasonable settlement'.

'What's his - and your - idea of a "most reasonable settlement"?'

'We were thinking of something in the region of two hundred dollars a month... payable up until the time you remarry'.

'I'm never getting married again'.

He attempted a benevolent smile. He failed. 'I can understand you're upset, Mrs Grey, given the circumstances. But I'm certain an attractive, intelligent woman like yourself will have no trouble finding another husband...'

'Except that I'm not in the market for another husband. Anyway, even if I was, I am now, medically speaking, damaged goods - to use my mother-in-law's kind words'.

He looked deeply embarrassed. 'Yes, I heard about your... medical difficulties. I am dreadfully sorry'.

'Thank you. But back to business. I'm afraid two hundred dollars a month is unacceptable. My salary at Saturday Night/Sunday Morning was three hundred a month. I think I deserve that'.

'I'm certain three hundred dollars a month would be agreeable'.

'Good. Now I have a proposal to put to you. When I told you that I am never planning to marry again, I'm certain you realized that George will, in effect, be paying me alimony for the rest of my life'.

'Yes, that thought did cross my mind'.

'I would like to simplify matters in that regard. I am willing to accept a one-off payment from George. Once that is made, I will ask for no further financial maintenance from him'.

He pursed his lips. 'And what sort of sum were you considering?'

'I was married to George for almost five months. I was with him for two months before then. Let's call it a total of seven months. I would like a year's alimony for each of those months. That works out at...'

He was already scribbling figures on his desk blotter. 'Twenty-five thousand two hundred dollars', he said.

'Precisely'.

'It's a large sum'.

'Not if you consider that, all going well, I should be alive for another forty-five or fifty years'.

'That is a point. And is that sum simply an opening offer?'

'No - it's the final offer. Either George agrees to pay me that amount upfront, or he can support me until the day I die. Are we clear about that, Mr Thomson?'

'Exceedingly. Naturally, I will have to discuss this with the Greys... sorry, with George'.

'Well, you know where to find me', I said, standing up.

He proffered his hand. I took it. It was soft and spongy. 'May I ask you something, Mrs Grey?'

'Of course'.

'This may sound strange, given that I am representing your husband, but I am nonetheless curious to know one thing: why on earth don't you want ongoing alimony?'

'Because I want nothing to do with the Greys ever again. And you can convey my feelings to your clients, should you so wish'.

He let go of my hand. 'I sense they know that already. Goodbye, Mrs Grey'.

On the way out of the offices of Potholm, Grey and Connell, I saw Edwin Grey, Sr, walking towards me in the corridor. Immediately, he lowered his eyes to avoid meeting mine. Then he passed by me without saying a word.

As soon as I was out of the building, I hailed a taxi and headed back to Sullivan Street. The meeting had drained me. I wasn't used to playing the role of the hard negotiator. But I was pleased with the way I had handled things. Just as I had surprised myself with the statement that I would never marry again. It was said off the top of my head, without premeditation. I hadn't considered the matter before making this declaration. But it evidently reflected what I was thinking right now. Whether I would still be thinking this same way about marriage several years from now was another matter. What I did know was this: it didn't work when your heart led your head. It didn't work when your head led your heart. Which, in turn, meant...

What?

Maybe that we never get it right. We just muddle through.

Which is perhaps one of the great reasons why love always disappoints. We enter it hoping it will make us whole - that it will shore up our foundations, end our sense of incompleteness, give us the stability we crave. Then we discover that, on the contrary, it is a deeply exposing experience. Because it is so charged with ambivalence. We seek certainty in another person. We discover doubt - both in the object of our affection and in ourselves.

So perhaps the trick of it is to recognize the fundamental ambivalence lurking behind every form of human endeavor. Because once you recognize that - once you grasp the flawed nature of everything - you can move forward without disappointment.

Until, of course, you fall in love again.

Two days after my meeting with Dudley Thomson, a letter from him arrived in the mail. In it, he informed me that George Grey had accepted my proposal of a once-off payment of $25,200 - on the condition that I would abnegate (his word) any further claims to alimony and/or other forms of financial maintenance. He also suggested that fifty per cent of this sum would be payable to me on signature of a legally binding agreement (which he would draw up once I informed him that, in principle, I accepted these terms), and fifty per cent when the official divorce decree came through twenty-four months from now (New York State was very reluctant back then to issue divorces with ease).

I picked up the phone and called Mr Thomson, informing him that I agreed to these terms. Within a week of that call, a legal agreement arrived through the mail. It was lengthy and semantically challenging for anyone like myself who hadn't been to law school. Eric also read it and decided it was labyrinthine. So, that day, he found me a local attorney in the neighborhood. His name was Joel Eberts. He was a beefy man in his late fifties, built like a stevedore. He had his office on the corner of Thompson and Prince Streets. It was one room, with scuffed linoleum and fluorescent lighting. His handshake was like a vise. But I liked his blunt style.

After briefly perusing the contract, he whistled through his blackened teeth and said, 'You were actually married to Edwin Grey's son?'

'I'm afraid so. Do you know the Greys?'

'I think I'm a little too Semitic for their social tastes. But in my younger days, I used to practice labor law, and for a while I represented the dockers over at the Brooklyn Navy Yards. You ever been over to the Navy Yards?'

'Yes', I said quietly. 'Once'.

'Anyway, Old Man Grey's firm made a lot of money representing the private contractors at the Navy Yards. Grey himself had this really fearsome reputation for actually taking pleasure in screwing the workers, especially when it came to negotiating contracts. And the thing was: the guy always won. I hated the sonofabitch - 'scuse my French - so I'll be happy to look this over for you. Six bucks an hour is what I charge. Is that okay?'

'Very reasonable. Too reasonable, in fact. Shouldn't I be paying you more?'

'This is the Village, not Wall Street. Six bucks an hour is my rate, and I'm not going to jack it up just because you're dealing with Potholm, Grey and Connell. But lemme ask you something: why just accept a one-off payment from the bastards?'

'I have my reasons'.

'As I am representing you, you'd better tell me them'.

Hesitantly, I informed him about the awfulness of the marriage, the nightmare that was my mother-in-law, and the miscarriage - with all its permanent implications. When I finished, he leaned over his desk and quickly squeezed my hand.

'That's a tough call, Miss Smythe. I'm really sorry'.

'Thank you'.

'Listen, I'll have all this sorted out in a couple of days. It shouldn't take more than around ten to twelve hours of my time, max'.

'That's fine', I said.

A week later, Mr Eberts called me at Eric's apartment.

'Sorry it took me some time to get back to you, but this took a little longer to negotiate than expected'.

'I thought it was all pretty straightforward'.

'Miss Smythe - when it comes to law, nothing's straightforward. Anyway, here's the deal. First the Bad News: I ended up spending twenty hours on this agreement, so it's gonna cost you a hundred and twenty dollars... which I know is twice the originally quoted price, but that's how these things go. Especially since the Good News is really Good News. They're now gonna pay you a one-off settlement of thirty-five grand'.

'Thirty-five thousand dollars? But Mr Thomson and I had agreed twenty-five thousand'.

'Yeah - but I always like to get my clients a little more than they bargained for. Anyway, I spoke to a doctor friend of mine, who told me that we could have a case against that quack specialist your mother-in-law imposed on you. What was his name again?'

'Dr Eisenberg'.

'Yeah, that's the gonif. Anyway, according to my doc friend, Eisenberg was negligent in not detecting the catastrophic nature of your pregnancy - and therefore could be held responsible for the permanent damage you suffered. Of course, that jerk Dudley Thomson at Potholm, Grey and Connell tried to pooh-pooh the idea of medical negligence - until I told him that if the Greys really wanted a nasty public divorce case, we were prepared to give them one'.

'But I would never have agreed to that'.

'Believe me, I was aware of that. All I was doing was playing Call My Bluff. And then I told them we now wanted a settlement of fifty grand...'

'Good God'.

'Of course I knew they'd never agree to that. But it did scare the pants off them - because within a day they came back with a counter-offer of thirty-five. Thompson says it's their absolutely final offer, but I'm pretty sure I can get them up to forty...'

'Thirty-five will do just fine', I said. 'Very honestly, I don't think I should accept this new sum at all'.

'Why the hell not? The Greys have got the money. Medically speaking, they're partially to blame for what happened to you. More to the point, this is a good deal for them. Once they pay you off, they'll never have another responsibility towards you again... which is how you wanted it, right?'

'Yes, but... I had agreed to the sum of twenty-five'.

'That's until you hired a lawyer. And trust me on this one: they owe you'.

'I don't know what to say'.

'Say nothing. Just take the money... and don't feel any guilt about it'.

'At least let me pay you more than a hundred and twenty dollars'.

'Why? That's my fee'.

'Thank you'.

'No, thank you. I had great fun finally winning one against Edwin-goddamn-Grey. The agreement should be here tomorrow, so I'll call you when it's ready for signature. And here's another little bit of good news: they're gonna give you the entire thirty-five grand right now, on the condition that you don't contest the divorce'.

'Why on earth would I want to do that?'

'That's what I told him. So, there we go. Happy?'

'Overwhelmed'.

'Don't be. But if you wouldn't mind a small piece of advice, Miss Smythe?'

'Please'.

'As we used to say in Brooklyn, spend the money smart'.

I heeded that advice. When the payment came through a month later, I put it in the bank and went shopping. For an apartment. It only took a week to find what I was looking for: a sunny one-bedroom place on the first floor of a turn-of-the-century brownstone on West 77th Street off Riverside Drive. The apartment was spacious, with three bright rooms, high ceilings, hardwood floors. There was a small alcove area off the living room which would make a perfect study. But the best selling point - the thing that made me want the place immediately - was the fact that it had its own private garden. All right, it was only a ten by ten patch of cracked paving stones and dead grass - but I knew I could do wonderful things with it. More tellingly, I would have my own private garden in the center of Manhattan - a little dash of green in the middle of all that high-rise concrete and brick. True, the walls of the apartment were covered in heavy brown floral wallpaper. And yes, the kitchen was a little old-fashioned - it had an antiquated ice box that actually required regular deliveries from the local ice man. But the real-estate broker said that she'd be willing to shave $300 off the asking price of $8000 to compensate for the renovations I would need to make. I told her to add another $200 to that figure, and we'd have a deal. She agreed. As it was a brownstone, I didn't have to be vetted by the board of the cooperative. There was just a monthly maintenance fee of $20. I used Joel Eberts again to handle the legal work. I paid cash. I owned the apartment a week after I saw it.

'My sister the property owner', Eric said archly while looking around the apartment only a few days before I closed the deal.

'Next thing I know, you'll be calling me a bourgeois capitalist'.

'I'm not being ideological - just wry. There is a difference, you know'.

'Really? I never realized that, comrade'.

'Shhh...'

'Stop being paranoid. I doubt Mr Hoover's bugged this apartment. I mean, the previous owner was a little old Latvian lady...'

'To Hoover, everyone's a possible subversive. Haven't you read what's been going on in Washington? A bunch of congressmen are screaming about Reds under the Bed in Hollywood. Calling for a committee to investigate Communist infiltration of the entertainment industry'.

'That's just Hollywood'.

'Believe me, if the Congress starts trying to dig up Commies in LA, then it'll just be a matter of time before they turn their attention to New York'.

'Like I told you before - if that happens, all you'll have to tell them is that you left the Party in forty-one, and you'll be in the clear. Anyway, you can always tell the Feds you have this arch-capitalist, property-owning sister...'

'Very funny'.

'Give it to me straight, Eric: do you like the place?'

He glanced again around the empty living room.

'Yeah - it's got great potential. Especially once you get rid of that Eastern European wallpaper. What do you think it's depicting? Springtime in Riga?'

'I don't know - but along with the kitchen, it's going before I set foot in here'.

'Are you sure about living on the Upper West Side? I mean, it's kind of quiet up here in the Dakotas'.

'I'll tell you, the only thing I miss about Old Greenwich is the sense of open space. That's why I like it up here. I'm a minute from Riverside Park. I've got the Hudson. I've got my garden...'

'Stop it, or you're going to start sounding like Thoreau at Walden Pond'.

I laughed, then said, 'After I pay for this place and do it up, I should still have around thirty-two thousand in the bank - that's including the inheritance money from Mother and Father, which I put into government bonds'.

'Unlike your profligate brother'.

'Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. The real-estate agent who sold me this place told me there was another apartment going on the third floor. So why don't you let me buy it for you and...'

He cut me off. 'No way', he said.

'Don't be so dismissive of the idea. I mean, that place of yours on Sullivan Street really isn't the best...'

'It suits me fine. It's all I need'.

'Come on, Eric - it's a student place. It's like bad La Boheme - and you're nearly thirty-five years old'.

'I know exactly how old I am, S', he said crossly. 'Just as I also know what I need or don't need. What I don't need is your damn charity, understand?'

His harsh tone stunned me.

'I was only making a suggestion. I mean, I know you don't like the Upper West Side, so if you saw a place downtown you wanted to buy...'

'I want nothing from you, S'.

'But why? I can help you'.

'Because I don't want help. Because needing help makes me feel like a loser'.

'You know I don't think that about you'.

'But I think that. So... thanks but no thanks'.

'At least consider it'.

'No. Case closed. But here's a practical tip from an impractical guy: find yourself a smart stockbroker and let him invest that thirty-two grand in blue chips: GE, General Motors, RCA, that kind of thing. Rumor has it IBM is also a smart bet - although they're still finding their feet as a company'.

'I didn't know you followed the market, Eric'.

'Sure - former Marxist-Leninists always pick the best stocks'.

When the apartment became mine a few days later, I hired a decorator to strip the wallpaper, replaster the walls and paint them a plain flat white. I also had him design a simple modern kitchen, featuring a new Amana refrigerator. All the work cost $600 - and for that all-inclusive price, he also agreed to sand and revarnish the hardwood floors, build two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the living room, and retile the bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it too went white. The remaining $400 of my decorating budget was spent on furniture: an antique brass bed, a tall ash chest of drawers, a simple Knoll sofa upholstered in a neutral beige fabric, a big cushy easy chair (also covered in the same fabric), a large pine table which would serve as a desk. It was amazing what you could buy with $400 back then - my budget also stretched to a couple of throw rugs, a few table lights, and a chrome kitchen table with two matching chairs.

The redecoration took around a month. All the furniture arrived on the morning the painters finally moved out. By nightfall - thanks to Eric's assistance - I had the place set up. I spent the next few days buying essentials like plates and glasses and cutlery and towels. I also exceeded my budget by a hundred and fifty dollars to invest in a state-of-the-art RCA radio and phonograph - all housed in one large mahogany cabinet. It was an indulgence, but a necessary one.

There were very few material things I craved. After reading in Life about the RCA Home Concert Hall (yes, that was its actual name), I knew I was going to buy it... even though it cost a ferocious $149.95. And now here it was - sitting in a corner of an apartment I owned outright, blaring the opening movement of Brahms's 3rd Symphony. I was surrounded by the first furniture I had ever bought in my life. Suddenly I had possessions. Suddenly I felt very grown up - and very empty.

'Penny for them', Eric said, handing me a glass of celebratory fizzy wine.

'I'm just a little bemused, that's all'.

'Bemused that you are the mistress of all you survey?'

'Bemused that I've ended up here, with all this'.

'It could be worse. You could still be a resident of the Grey Penal Colony in Old Greenwich'.

'Yes - divorce does have its rewards, I guess'.

'You're feeling guilty about all this. I can tell'.

'I know this sounds stupid, but I keep telling myself that it's not right I've been handed this without...'

'What? Suffering? Martyrdom? Crucifixion?'

I laughed. 'Yes', I said. 'Something extreme and punitive like that'.

'I love a masochist. Anyway, S - as far as I'm concerned, thirty-five grand doesn't even begin to compensate you for the fact that you'll never...'

'Stop', I said.

'I'm sorry'.

'Don't be. It's my problem. I will come to terms with it'.

He put an arm around my shoulder.

'You don't have to come to terms with it', he said.

'Yes. I do. Otherwise...'

'What?'

'Otherwise I'll do something very stupid... like turning this into the central tragedy of my life. Which I don't want it to be. I'm not cut out to play the lamentable heroine. It's simply not my style'.

'At least give yourself some time to come to terms with things. It's only been two months'.

'I'm doing fine', I lied. 'I'm doing just fine'.

In truth, I wasn't doing badly. Because I was also working hard at filling every hour of the day. After moving into the apartment, I set up meetings with half-a-dozen different stockbrokers, before settling on Lawrence Braun - the husband of an old Bryn Mawr friend, Virginia Sweet. She'd married Lawrence straight out of college, and was now coping with three under-fives in a rambling colonial house in Ossining. But it wasn't the connection with Virginia that made me give Lawrence my business - rather, the fact that he was the only stockbroker I met who didn't patronize me, or say things like: 'Now I know you ladies really don't have much of a head for figures.. , except when it comes to girdle sizes, ha! ha!' (yes, that really was commonplace male wit in 1947). On the contrary, Lawrence questioned me carefully about my long-term financial goals (Security, security, and more security), and my attitude towards risk (to be avoided at all costs).

'Do you want this money to provide an immediate income for you?' he asked.

'Absolutely not', I said. 'I'm planning to go back to work as soon as possible. I refuse to be the so-called lady of leisure. It's a waste of a life'.

'And if marriage happens again for you?'

'It won't. Ever'.

He thought about that one for a moment, then said, 'Fine. Then let's think very long term'.

His financial plan was a straightforward one. My five thousand dollars in government bonds would be moved into a pension plan that would mature when I was sixty. Twenty thousand dollars would be used to acquire a portfolio of blue-chip stocks - with the aim of achieving at least six per cent growth per annum. The remaining five thousand would be mine to play with - or to live on while I found work.

'All going well, you will have quite a substantial war chest behind you by the time you're into middle age. Add to this the fact that you will be sitting on an appreciable asset - a completely paid-off apartment - and it looks like you will be financially dependent on no one'.

That was what I wanted - complete independence. Never again would I allow myself to be dependent on someone else. I wasn't slamming the door on men, or sex, or the possibility of falling in love. But there was no damn way I was going to stumble into a situation where I would be reliant on a man for my sense of self, my social status, or the cash in my pocket. From now on, I would be an autonomous unit: self-sufficient, unimpeded, unattached.

So I agreed to Lawrence's financial plan. Checks were written, investments made. Though I now had five thousand dollars in my bank account - to spend however I wanted - I forced myself to be prudent, determined not to squander it on frivolities. Because money now meant independence. Or, at least, the illusion of independence.

After sorting out my financial situation, I paid a call to Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. Nathaniel Hunter's appalling successor had only lasted a few months in the job. She'd been replaced by a tiny, impish woman named Imogen Woods - a real Dorothy Parker type who was known for her long lunches, her perpetual hangovers, and her spot-on taste in fiction. When I called her office, she told me to drop by the next afternoon around five. She was sitting in an armchair next to her desk, correcting some proof pages from the magazine. A Pall Mall was smoldering in an already brimming ashtray. A highball was in one hand, a pencil in the other. She had a pair of half-moon glasses on the end of her nose, through which she studied me with care.

'So - another refugee from married life', she said.

'News obviously travels fast'.

'Hey - it's a magazine. Which, in turn, means it's filled with people who think they're doing something important, but secretly know they're doing nothing of importance, and therefore like nothing better than gossiping about other people's more interesting lives'.

'My life isn't particularly interesting'.

'A marriage that only lasts five months is always interesting. The shortest of my three marital disasters lasted six months'.

'And the longest?'

'A year and a half'.

'Impressive'.

She cackled loudly, exhaling a lungful of smoke. 'Yeah - like hell. So, tell me - when are you going to write another story for us? I dug your first one out of the file. Pretty damn good. Where's the next one?'

I explained that I considered myself a one-hit wonder - that I had tried writing fiction again, but found that I had nothing to say.

'So that's really going to be your only story?' she asked.

'I think so, yes'.

'He must have been quite a guy, your sailor'.

'He was fictitious'.

She threw back her highball.

'Yeah - and I'm Rita Hayworth. Anyway, I'm not going to pry, much as I'd like to. How can I help?'

'I know my old job is filled, but I was wondering if I might be able to do a little freelance reading for you...'

'No problem', she said. 'Ever since the goddamn war ended, everyone in America's decided they're a writer. We're deluged with unsolicited crap. So we'd be happy to throw around twenty manuscripts your way each week. We pay three bucks a report. It ain't a fortune, but it should pay for some groceries. Your friend Emily Flouton was telling me that you've just moved into your own place'.

'That's right', I said.

'So tell me about it', she said.

I did as instructed, explaining a bit about how I threw myself into apartment hunting after leaving George, how I'd found this place on West 77th Street, and had stripped the apartment bare, redecorating it in neutral tones.

'That'll work', she said.

'What will work?'

'Your story about the apartment. We'll call it "Act Two" or "Starting Over" or something goddamn similar. What I want from you is a smart, funny account of finding your own place after your marriage got torpedoed'.

'But, like I told you, I'm not writing fiction anymore'.

'And I'm not asking you to write fiction. I'm asking you to be the first contributor to a new slot His Godship the Editor has asked me to develop. He wants to call it "Slice of Life" - which shows you the sort of imagination he's got. But that's the gist of it - a quick, elegant dispatch from that battlefront called "real life". A thousand words, no more, the fee is forty bucks, and to make sure you don't spend too much time sweating over it, I'm going to expect it on my desk five days from now. That's start of business Monday. Are you clear on that, Smythe?'

I gulped. Loudly. 'Are you sure you want me to write this?' I said.

'No - I always waste my time commissioning stuff I really don't want. Come on, Smythe: are you going to do this or what?'

After a nervous pause, I said, 'Yes - I'll do it'.

'That's settled then. Meanwhile, I'll have one of my lackeys dig out twenty new arrivals from the slush pile of The Great Unsolicited Short Story and have them sent over to your place. But do your own story first. And Monday means Monday. Okay?'

'I'll do my best'.

'No - you'll do it very well. Because that's what I'm expecting from you. One final thing - write sharp. I like sharp. Sharp always works'.

Naturally enough, by ten that Sunday night, I had given up hope of making the deadline the next morning. The area around my desk looked like a do-it-yourself snowfall, as it was knee-deep in balled-up typing paper. I was blocked, congealed, mentally barricaded. Over the previous four days, I had tried dozens of different openings to the piece. Each time, I had thrown my hands up in despair, ripped the paper from my Remington, and cursed myself for accepting this commission. I wasn't a writer - I was a fraud. Someone who'd gotten lucky the first time around, but had been a muse-free zone since then. Worse yet, I knew full well that inspiration only constituted around fifteen per cent of the ingredients needed for writing. Craft, diligence, and sheer obstinacy made up the rest of the equation - and I was certainly lacking in all these departments. Because if I didn't possess the stubbornness - and self-assurance - required to toss off a dumb thousand-word feature about redecorating my new apartment, then how would I ever do this sort of thing professionally?

I now knew the answer to that question: I didn't have the skill, the rigor, the sheer moxie required to get on with the job of writing. I didn't trust myself enough.

Just before midnight, I picked up the phone and called Eric, repeating this self-pitying rant to him. I ended with the plaintive comment: 'I suppose I can always stick to editing'.

'What a tragic denouement', he said, with more than a hint of irony.

'I knew I could count on you for sympathy and understanding'.

'I simply don't understand why you can't just write the damn thing - and get it over with'.

'Because it's not that damn simple!' I said, adding: 'And yes, I do know I sound overwrought'.

'At least you haven't lost your capacity for self-knowledge'.

'Why do I ever tell you anything?'

'God knows - but if you want a piece of writerly advice, here it is: just sit down and punch it out. Don't think - just write'.

'Thanks a lot', I said.

'Anytime', he said. 'Good luck'.

I hung up the phone, I staggered into my bedroom, I fell on my bed, I nodded off (having hardly slept the previous night). When I came to again, the bedside clock read 5.12 a.m. I sat up, startled. Thinking: I've got a deadline to make in less than five hours.

I threw off all my clothes. I took a very hot shower, finishing it with a punishing thirty-second blast of ice-cold water. I dressed. I put a pot of coffee on the stove. I glanced at my watch. Five thirty-two a.m. The deadline was ten. When the coffee was ready, I poured myself a cup and carried it over to my desk. I rolled a piece of paper into my Remington. I took a fast sip of the still-scalding coffee. Then I took a very deep breath.

Don't think - just write.

All right, all right. I'll try...

Without thinking, I hammered out a paragraph:

The real-estate agent was a woman in her fifties. Her face was heavily rouged, her smile rigid, fixed. I saw her studying my ringless left hand, and the elaborate engagement ring which I had just recently transferred to my right hand.

'Was he a bum?' she said.

'No', I said. It just didn't work out'.

I stopped for a moment. I took another gulp of coffee. I glanced at the six typed lines on the page. I started writing again.

'So you 're looking for a fresh start?' she asked me.

'No', I said. 'I'm just looking for an apartment'.

Not bad, not bad. Keep going. I downed the rest of the cup. I looked back down at the keyboard. I started typing again.

When I looked up again, it was 8.49 a.m. Morning light was flooding the living room. And four typed pages were stacked beside me at the desk. I pulled the final page from the Remington, and placed it at the bottom of the pile. Then, reaching for a pencil, I read through the feature - quickly excising a few clumsy phrases, tightening up the grammar, rewriting a small block of dialog. Another fast glance at my watch: 9.02 a.m. I reached for ten clean sheets of typing paper, one of carbon. I sandwiched the carbon paper between two sheets. I carefully rolled it into my Remington. I started retyping the story. It took just under forty minutes to finish the job. Nine forty-two a.m. No time to lose. I took the top copy of the story, tossed it into my briefcase, grabbed my coat and charged for the door. I hailed a cab going downtown on Riverside Drive, and told the driver I'd give him a hefty tip if he could get me to Rockefeller Center just before ten a.m.

'From here to Rockefeller Center in twelve minutes?' he said. 'Forgeddaboudit'.

'Just do your best, please'.

'Lady, that's all any of us can do'.

Besides being something of a philosopher, the cabbie was also a maniac behind the wheel. But he did get me to 50th and Fifth by 10.04. I gave him a buck-fifty, even though the meter only read eighty-five cents.

'Remind me to pick you up again', he said when I told him to keep the change. 'I hope you get whatever you're rushing to get'.

I charged into the lobby of Saturday/Sunday. The elevator was crowded, and made a lot of stops before it reached the fifteenth floor. Ten eleven a.m. I walked briskly down the corridor. I knocked on Imogen Woods' door, fully expecting her secretary to greet me. But Miss Woods opened it herself.

'You're late', she said.

'Just a few minutes'.

'And you look harassed as hell'.

'The traffic...'

'Yeah, yeah - I've heard that one before. And let me guess: your dog ate your copy'.

'No', I said, fumbling with the clasps on my briefcase. 'I actually have it here'.

'Well, well - wonders do happen'.

I reached inside and handed over the five pages. She took them from me, then opened the door again.

'I'll call you when I've read it', she said, 'which might take a couple of days, given how goddamn behind I am on everything. Meanwhile, go buy yourself a cup of coffee, Smythe. You look like you need one'.

I actually treated myself to breakfast at Lindy's: bagels and lox, accompanied by lots of black coffee. Then I walked one block uptown to the Colony Record Shop and dropped $2.49 on a new recording of Don Giovanni, featuring Ezio Pinza as the great womanizer. Feeling that I was being just a tad profligate, I opted for the subway home, kicked off my shoes, stacked the four new discs on my phonograph, pushed the lever marked On, flopped on my sofa, and spent the next few hours doing nothing but listening to Mozart and Da Ponte's sublime, dark tale of carnal crime and punishment. The music washed over me. I was exhausted, depleted. And totally bemused as to how the hell I had managed to get the story written. Though the carbon copy was on my desk, I didn't want to read through it right now. There was time enough to discover whether it was good or not.

Around three that afternoon - just as Don Giovanni was descending into hell - the phone rang. It was Imogen Woods.

'So', she said, 'you can write'.

'Really?' I said, sounding uncertain.

'Yeah. Really'.

'You mean, you liked the piece?'

'Yes, Oh Unconfident One - I actually did like it. So much so that I'm going to commission another feature from you... if you're not too full of self-doubt to handle another commission'.

'I can handle another commission', I said.

'That's what I like to hear', she said.

The commission was for another 'Slice of Life' piece - only this time she wanted me to do something funny and smart on that most unnerving rite of passage: the first date. Once again, the length was a thousand words. Once again, she insisted it be in within a week. Once again, I pulled my hair out until - following Eric's advice - I sat down and simply wrote the thing straight through. Telling the silly story of the night that Dick Becker - one of my classmates at Hartford High; a tall, nervous science whiz with bad skin and an overbite - invited me to a Square Dance at the local Episcopalian church. It wasn't exactly the most lascivious first date in history. Rather, it was very awkward, very sweet. At the end of the evening (I had a curfew of nine thirty), he walked me to my door and chastely shook my hand.

Nothing terribly memorable happened, I wrote. Neither of us did anything embarrassing, like clunking our heads together while attempting a kiss. Because there was no kiss. We were both terribly formal with each other. Formal and proper and oh-so-innocent. Which, after all, is the way a first date should be.

This time I made the deadline with twenty minutes to spare. On my way back home from the Saturday/Sunday offices, I had breakfast again in Lindy's, then went to the Colony and bought a new recording of Horowitz playing three Mozart piano sonatas. As I walked back into my apartment, the phone started ringing.

'Now, in my jaundiced opinion', Imogen Woods said, 'a first date should end with me waking up the next morning and discovering that I'm in bed with Robert Mitchum. But, of course, I'm not a nice girl like you'.

'I am not a nice girl', I said.

'Oh yes you are. Which is why you're the perfect Saturday/Sunday writer'.

'So you liked the piece?'

'Yeah - give or take the occasional dumb line, I liked it. Mucho. So what next?'

'You want me to write something else for you?'

'I love a girl with impressive powers of deduction'.

My third commission was for a piece entitled 'When You Just Can't Get It Right', a moderately amusing thousand-word stroll through that perennial tonsorial problem called 'a bad hair day'. Yes, I knew this was lightweight stuff. Yes, I knew that this sort of thing would never win me a Pulitzer. But I also knew that I had a facility for wry observations on small domestic or personal subjects. I could - to quote Imogen Woods - write sharp. More importantly, I had discovered that I could actually write again... a discovery which astonished and delighted me. It wasn't fiction. It wasn't high art. But it was tightly constructed and had some wit. For the first time in years, I felt curiously confident. I had a talent. A small talent, perhaps - but a talent nonetheless.

I delivered 'When You Just Can't Get It Right' a day ahead of its due date. As always I celebrated with breakfast at Lindy's and the acquisition of a record at the Colony (a recording of Bach's Goldberg Variations for harpsichord, performed by Wanda Landowska - a bargain at eighty-nine cents). I heard nothing from Miss Woods for nearly forty-eight hours. By the time she called, I had convinced myself she'd so hated this new piece that my career at Saturday/ Sunday was over.

'Well, His Godship the Editor and I have been having words about you', she said as soon as I picked up the phone.

'Oh, really', I said. 'Is something wrong?'

'Yeah - he hates your stuff and wanted me to break the news to you'.

After a long pause, I managed to say: 'Well, I guess that's to be expected'.

'Jesus Christ, will you listen to yourself. Little Miss Fatalistic'.

'So he... uh... wasn't asking you to fire me?'

'Au contraire - His Godship really likes those three pieces you wrote. So much so that he wants me to offer you a contract'.

'What kind of contract?'

'What kind of contract do you think? A writing contract, you dolt. You're going to have your own weekly column in the magazine'.

'You can't be serious'.

But she was. And during the first week of 1948, my column - 'Sara Smythe's Real Life' - made its first appearance in the magazine. It was, at heart, a continuation of the three 'Slice of Life' pieces I had already written for Miss Woods. Each week, I would take an incident or a minor problem - 'The Guy With Bad Breath', 'How I Can Never Boil Spaghetti Well', 'Why I Always Buy Stockings That Run' - and turn it into a light, fast divertissement. Without question, the column celebrated the trivial, the prosaic. But it was reasonably droll - and because it was rooted in the mundanity of day-to-day female existence, I never ran out of weekly ideas.

Initially I was paid fifty dollars a column for forty-eight columns per annum. To me, this was incredible money - considering that the piece never took more than a day to write. Within six months of its inauguration, however, His Godship renegotiated my contract - after the Ladies' Home Journal and Woman's Home Companion tried to poach me. Because, much to my complete surprise, 'Sara Smythe's Real Life' had become something of a success. I was getting around fifty letters a week from women readers across the country, telling me how much they enjoyed my allegedly funny observations on what Imogen Woods called 'girly stuff. His Godship himself - Ralph J. Linklater - was also beginning to receive positive reader feedback about the column. Then two things happened which suddenly made me valuable - (a) four of Saturday/Sunday's advertisers asked for their copy to be run alongside my column, and (b) I was approached by those two ladies' magazines, and offered a considerable raise in pay if I would defect to them.

I was astonished by these offers. So astonished that I mentioned them, en passant, to Imogen Woods - dropping it halfway into a phone conversation about my next column. She sounded instantly worried.

'Honestly, Imogen', I assured her. 'I wouldn't dream of leaving the magazine. That wouldn't be ethical'.

'Well, God bless your George Washington conscience. But promise me this: don't respond to those letters until I've spoken to His Godship'.

Of course, I promised not to respond to the competing magazines. Call me naive - but I was perfectly happy being paid fifty dollars a column. Especially as it had become so straightforward to write. I didn't intend to use the other offers as a bargaining chip. When His Godship himself personally called me at home the next morning, I suddenly realized that that was what they had become.

I had met Mr Linklater just once before this conversation - when he invited me out to lunch (with Miss Woods) a few months after my column had started. He was a large, portly man who reminded me a lot of Charles Laughton. He liked to run the magazine in a grandfatherly way - but was notoriously harsh with anyone who contradicted him. As Miss Woods warned me before our lunch, 'Treat him like your favorite uncle, and he'll love you. But if you try to flash your smarts at him - not that you would - he won't respond to that at all'.

Of course, my Smythe family manners meant that I was instantly deferential to this man of authority. Afterwards, Miss Woods told me that His Godship thought I was 'just peachy' (an exact quote), and 'precisely the nice, clever sort of young woman we like writing for the magazine'.

His phone call came at eight a.m. I had been up late the night before, finishing next week's column - so I was still groggy when I reached for the phone.

'Sara - good morning! Ralph J. Linklater here. Haven't woken you, have I?'

I was instantly conscious. 'No, sir. It's nice to hear from you'.

'And it's wonderful to speak to our star columnist. You are still our star columnist, Sara... aren't you?'

'Of course, Mr Linklater. Saturday/Sunday has been so good to me'.

'Delighted to hear you say that, Sara. Because - as I'm sure you know - I like to think of all of us at Saturday/Sunday as family. You do consider us family, don't you, Sara?'

'Absolutely, Mr Linklater'.

'Wonderful. It's so good to know that. Because we consider you such a valuable part of our family. So valuable that we want to put you under an exclusive contract to us and increase your fee to eighty dollars a week'.

The word exclusive suddenly rang alarm bells in my head. I decided to tread carefully.

'Gosh, Mr Linklater, eighty dollars a week is really generous. And God knows, I really want to stay with Saturday/Sunday - but if I accept your offer, it means my income will only be eighty dollars a week. Which is kind of limiting, wouldn't you agree?'

'A hundred a week then'.

'That's very acceptable - but say someone else offers me a hundred and twenty dollars - and on a non-exclusive basis'.

'No one would do that', he said, suddenly sounding a little irritated.

'You're probably right, sir', I said, politeness itself. 'I guess the only thing that troubles me is the idea that I'd be closing off other options, other potential markets. Isn't making the best of your opportunities all part of the American Way?'

I couldn't believe I'd spoken that line (even though I knew that His Godship was always writing 'Thoughts from The Editor's Chair' pieces on O.W.L.: Our Way of Life). I couldn't believe I was suddenly in this high-stakes (for me) negotiation with our benevolent ruler, Ralph J. Linklater. But having entered into this negotiation, I knew I had to see it through.

'Yes, you're absolutely right, Sara', His Godship said with reluctance, 'a competitive marketplace is one of the great glories of American democracy. And I really respect a young woman like yourself who understands the marketability of her talents. But one hundred and twenty a column is the absolute maximum I can pay. And yes, that would be for the exclusive use of your talents. However, here's what I'm also prepared to do. According to Miss Woods, you love classical music - and know lots about it. So say you also wrote an amusing monthly column for us about how to listen to Beethoven and Brahms, which record you should give your honey for Christmas... that kind of fun thing. We'll call the column... uhm... got any thoughts on the subject?'

'How about "Music for Middlebrows"?'

'Perfect. And I'll be willing to pay you sixty dollars per month for the column, in addition to the hundred and twenty you'll be getting for "Real Life". Does that sound like a peachy deal or what?'

'Very peachy'.

Within a few days, I had a contract from Saturday/Sunday for the terms agreed with His Godship. I paid Joel Eberts to look it over. He spoke to someone in the magazine's legal affairs department, and after a bit of horse trading, got them to include a clause which allowed both parties to renegotiate the terms in eighteen months' time. Once again, Mr Eberts only charged me six dollars an hour for his services. And when he handed me his bill for twenty-four dollars, he said, 'Sorry I took the extra hour, but...'

'Mr Eberts, please. I can well afford it. I'm now making more money than I know what to do with'.

'I'm sure you'll figure out ways of spending it'.

Actually, there was little I wanted to buy. My new music column meant that I was being inundated with free records from all the music companies. I had no mortgage, no rent. I had no dependents. I still had most of that five thousand dollars cash in the bank. Lawrence Braun seemed to be achieving reasonable growth on my twenty-thousand-dollar portfolio. I was suddenly earning seven thousand a year - giving me an after-tax income of five thousand dollars. Prudently, I started salting away two thousand per annum in my pension plan, but this still gave me nearly sixty dollars a week to live on. Back in 1948, a top-price ticket on Broadway or at Carnegie Hall was two dollars fifty. A movie was sixty cents. My weekly grocery bill was under ten dollars. Breakfast at my local Greek coffee shop was forty cents - and that included scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and bottomless coffee. A great meal at Luchows for two was no more than eight dollars tops.

Of course, I wanted to lavish as much money as possible on Eric. But he wouldn't let me do much more than pick up the occasional check for dinner or accept all the free surplus records I received from the record companies. Once or twice I made noises again about buying him an apartment, but these were always met with an instant 'No thanks'. Though he kept telling me how thrilled he was with my success, it was clear that it made him a little anxious.

'I think I'll start introducing myself as Sara Smythe's brother', he said one evening.

'But I always introduce myself as the sister of the funniest comedy writer in New York', I countered.

'Nobody rates a comedy writer', he said.

That wasn't totally true - because a few months after I signed my new contract with Saturday/Sunday, Eric called me early one morning in a state of high excitement. A young comedian named Marty Manning had been hired by NBC to create a show for the network's prime-time television schedule - due to go on the air in January 1949. Manning told Eric that he'd heard great things about him from his pal, Joe E. Brown - and, after a long lunch at the Friar's Club, offered Eric a contract as one of his show's top writers.

'Of course, I accepted on the spot - because Manning is a really hot talent: very smart, very innovative. The problem is, who the hell is going to watch television? I mean, do you know anyone who owns one?'

'Everyone says it's the coming thing'.

'Don't hold your breath'.

A few days later, one of NBC's lawyers contacted Eric to discuss his contract. The money was amazing: two hundred dollars per week, starting September 1st, 1948 - even though the show wasn't premiering until January twenty-eighth. There was a problem, however: the network had become aware of the fact that Eric was deeply involved in the Presidential campaign of Henry Wallace. He'd been Roosevelt's Vice President, until FDR dropped him from the 1944 ticket for being too radical, instead choosing the untried, universally disliked Harry S. Truman. Had FDR kept his nerve and retained Wallace as his VP, he'd be our president now - and, as Eric was fond of noting, we would have a proper democratic socialist in the White House. Instead, we ended up with 'that ward boss hack from Missouri' (Eric's words again) - a hack whom everyone was betting on to lose to Dewey in November. Especially since Wallace was now running as the candidate of his own Progressive Party, and was expected to rob Truman of many left-of-center voters.

Eric adored everything about Henry Wallace: his rigorous intelligence, his belief in social justice, his unwavering support for the working man and for the original principles of the New Deal. From the moment Wallace had announced his presidential candidacy - in spring of '48 - my brother had been a leading figure in the 'Show Business for Wallace' campaign, becoming one of the chief fundraisers in the Tri-State area, organizing benefit performances, soliciting contributions from the entertainment community in New York.

As Eric later described it to me, the NBC lawyer - Jerry Jameson - was a perfectly reasonable fellow, with a perfectly reasonable tone of voice, and a perfectly reasonable way of explaining why the network had a few problems with his political activism.

'God knows, the National Broadcasting Company is a staunch defender of First Amendment rights', Jameson told him. 'And those rights, Eric, include supporting whatever political party or candidate you want - whether he's hard-left, hard-right, or just plain cuckoo'.

Jameson laughed at his own joke. Eric didn't join in. Instead he said, 'Let's get to the point here, Mr Jameson'.

'The point, Mr Smythe, is this: if you were simply supporting Wallace privately, there'd be no problem. But the fact that you're flashing your radical credentials for all to see is worrying some of the NBC brass. They know Manning wants you. He keeps telling everyone how good you are. And the way the brass see it is: if Marty wants you on the team, Marty should have you. All they're worried about is... '.

'What? That I might set up my own Politburo within NBC? Or maybe that I'll try to hire Laughing Joe Stalin as part of Marty's writing team?'

'I can see why Marty wants you. You really know how to turn out a one-liner...'

'I am not a Communist'.

'That's good to hear'.

'I am a loyal American. I have never supported a foreign power. I have never preached civil insurrection, or the overthrow of Congress, or come out in favor of a Soviet as our next Commander in Chief'.

'Believe me, Mr Smythe - you don't have to convince me of your patriotism. All we're asking... my advice to you... is that you take a back seat in the Wallace campaign. Sure, you can attend fundraising stuff. Just don't be seen to be playing such an upfront role for the guy. Face fact, Wallace has absolutely no chance of being elected. Dewey's going to be our next president... and after November fifth, no one's going to give a damn about any of this. But Eric, take it from me - people are going to give a damn about television. Give it five, six years - and it will kill radio dead. You could be one of the pioneers of the medium. Someone, my friend, in the vanguard of an entire new revolution...'

'Cut the crap, Jameson. I'm a gag writer, not Tom Paine. And let's get one thing clear: I am not your friend'.

'All right. I'm very clear on that point. I am simply asking you to be realistic'.

'All right. I'll be completely realistic. If you want me to back out of the Wallace campaign, I want a two-year contract with Manning at three hundred dollars a week'.

'That's excessive'.

'"No, Jameson - that's the deal." And then I put down the phone'.

I poured Eric some more wine. He needed it.

'So what happened next?' I asked.

'An hour later, the sonofabitch came back and agreed to the three hundred bucks per week, the two-year contract, three weeks paid vacation, major medical, blah, blah, blah - on the condition that it would all be taken away from me if I was seen publicly raising funds for that bad Mr Wallace. They even added an extra proviso: they didn't want me near any Wallace rallies, campaign parties, whatever. "That's the price for your extra hundred a week," Jameson told me'.

'That's outrageous', I said. 'Not to mention unconstitutional'.

'Well, as Jameson himself said, I didn't have to accept these terms - "because, after all, it is a free country"'.

'So what are you going to do?'

'Oh, I've done it already. I said "yes" to NBC's terms'.

I said nothing.

'Do I detect a hint of reproach in your silence?' he asked.

'I'm just a little surprised by your decision, that's all'.

'I have to tell you, the Wallace people were very understanding. And supportive. And actually grateful'.

'Grateful? Why?'

'Because I'm giving them the extra five thousand dollars I'm making this year from NBC for agreeing to vanish from the Wallace campaign'.

I laughed loudly. 'That's brilliant', I said. 'What a classy sting'.

He put his finger to his lips. 'It's obviously all Top Secret - because if NBC learned what I was doing with their hush money, the ax would fall on my head. There is a problem, though - I won't have the five grand until I start getting paid...'

'I'll write you a check', I said.

'I promise it will be paid back in full by February first'.

'Whenever. I'm just so damn impressed, Mr Machiavelli. Do you always never let the right hand know what the left hand is doing?'

'Hey - it's the American Way'.

Wallace, as predicted, was trounced at the polls. Like the rest of the nation, Truman went to bed on the night of the election, fully expecting to wake up to Thomas Dewey's victory. But the math didn't work out that way - and Harry stayed put at the White House. On the morning of the election, I got cold feet. Fearing that a vote for Wallace was, in actuality, a vote for Dewey - I switched allegiance and voted for the President. When I later admitted this to Eric, he just shrugged and said, 'I guess somebody has to be sensible in this family'.

Two months later, The Big Broadway Review with Marty Manning premiered on NBC. It was an immediate, huge hit. Shortly thereafter, my banker rang me one morning to say that a check for five thousand dollars had just been lodged to my account. Eric was always a man of his word.

And now, finally, he was also a huge success. The Big Broadway Review eventually turned into The Marty Manning Show - and became the talk of the town. Everyone adored it. I even went out and bought a television set - because, understandably, I had to see what my brother was cooking up each week. Marty Manning and his cohorts became overnight stars. But Eric and his writing team were also feted. The New York Times ran a lengthy profile in its Sunday Arts and Leisure section on a day in the life of the Marty Manning writers - in which Eric featured prominently as the witty ringleader of this gang of paid gag men. Even Winchell mentioned him in his column:

Heard a good yuck the other day at the Stork Club from Marty Manning scribe, Eric Smythe: 'Where there's a will, there's always a relative!' Smythe - Marty Manning's major-domo for one-liners - also has a talented sis: Sara, whose ha-ha column in Saturday Night/Sunday Morning keeps the ladies laughing every week. Talented yucksters, them Smythes...

'Did you really tell Winchell that terrible joke?' I asked Eric after the column appeared.

'I was drunk at the time'.

'Well, he obviously thought it was funny'.

'Don't you know that rabid Republicans never have a sense of humor'.

'I love being referred to as a "yuckster"'.

'What can I say, S? Fame at last'.

Not just fame - but also, for Eric, celebrity. Success transformed him. He reveled in his newfound professional esteem and prosperity. Finally, he cast off his aura of self-loathing, his need to play the failed writer-in-the-garret. Within a month of the show's premiere, he exchanged his down-at-heel atelier on Sullivan Street for an elegant furnished apartment at the Hampshire House on Central Park South. The rent was a staggering two hundred and fifty dollars a month - nearly four times that of his Greenwich Village place - but, as he was fond of saying, 'Hey, that's what the money's for'.

Besides his talent for comedy, Eric also discovered another interesting gift during that first heady year with Marty Manning: an ability to spend money recklessly. As soon as he moved to Central Park South, he revamped his entire wardrobe - and started favoring bespoke suits. Whereas Manning's other writers dressed like Damon Runyon characters - just back after a day at the track - Eric fancied himself a Noel Coward dandy: cravats, double-breasted suits in Prince of Wales check, hand-made brogues, expensive aftershave. But it wasn't just clothes that soaked up his money. He was out every night - a regular habitue at the Stork Club, or 21, or the Astor Bar, or the jazz clubs that lined 52nd Street. He would always pick up the tab. Just as he would insist on taking me on a week-long vacation to Cuba, staying at the ultra-expensive Hotel Nacional. Just as he would hire his own personal valet. Just as he would lend money to anyone who needed it. Just as he would always be broke at the end of every month... until the next pay check rolled in.

I tried to lecture him on financial restraint, and the virtue of putting a little bit aside every month. He didn't listen to me. He was having too good a time. And he was also in love - with a musician named Ronnie Garcia, who played sax for the Rainbow Room's resident band. Ronnie was a diminutive Cuban-American, raised on the Bronx's Grand Concourse; a high school dropout and self-taught musician who also managed to consume books at a ferocious rate. I'd never met a better-read person. As a musician, he'd backed the likes of Dick Haymes, Mel Torme, and Rosemary Clooney... but he could also carry on a very erudite conversation about Eliot's Four Quartets (in an authentic dees-dems-and-does Bronx accent). Eric had met him at a backstage Rainbow Room party for Artie Shaw in April of 1949 - and from that moment on, they were an item. Only, of course, they could never advertise that they were involved. Extreme discretion was demanded. Though the staff of the Hampshire House obviously knew that Ronnie was living with Eric, this was never mentioned. His fellow writers on Marty Manning never asked him about his private life - though they all knew he was the only member of the team who wasn't bragging about his skirt-chasing exploits. Ronnie and Eric never showed the slightest bit of physical affection towards each other in public. Even around me, their status as a couple was never acknowledged. Only once - over dinner alone with my brother in Chinatown - did Eric openly ask me if I liked Ronnie.

'I think he's wonderful. Smart as hell - and he plays a mean sax'.

'Good', he said shyly. 'That really makes me happy. Because... well... uh... you know what I'm getting at, don't you?'

I put my hand on top of my brother's. 'Yes, Eric - I do. And it's fine'.

He looked at me warily. 'Are you sure?'

'If you're happy, I'm happy. That's all that matters'.

'Really?'

'Absolutely'.

He gripped my hand. 'Thank you', he whispered. 'You don't know how much that means to me'.

I leaned over and kissed his head, then said, 'Shut up'.

'Now we just need to fix you up'.

'Forget it', I said sharply. And I meant it. Because though I wasn't short of male company - let alone suitors - I deliberately sidestepped involvement. Yes, I did see a Random House editor, Donald Clark, for around four months. And yes, I did have a short-lived fling with a Daily News journalist named Gene Smadbeck. But I ended them both - possibly because Clark was too much of a pleasant stiff, whereas Smadbeck was, at the age of thirty, already trying to drink himself to death (though, when sober, he was a total charmer). When I told Gene that it was over, he didn't take the news very well - as he'd delusionally convinced himself he was in love with me.

'Lemme guess', he said, 'you're dropping me for some corporate type, who will give you all the security I can't'.

'I was married to that sort of man - as you well know - and I left him after five months. So, believe me, I don't need a man to give me security. I've got enough of it myself'.

'Well, you've got to be leaving me for someone'.

'Why is it that men always have this preposterous idea that, if a woman doesn't want to see them anymore, it's because there must be someone else? Sorry to disappoint you - but I'm leaving you for no one. I'm leaving you because you're determined to self-destruct before the age of thirty-five... and I don't want a supporting role in your melodrama'.

'Christ, will you listen to the tough little broad'.

'I have to be tough', I said. 'Because tough's the only way you hold your own... as a broad'.

This exchange took place in the bar of the New Yorker Hotel on 34th and Seventh. After finally extricating myself, I caught the subway home and spent the evening listening, yet again, to that amazing Ezio Pinza performance of Don Giovanni. Of all the records in my ever-growing collection, it was the one to which I kept returning. Tonight, however, I figured out why. In the opera, Donna Elvira is swearing revenge against Giovanni - because he's robbed her of her virtue. In truth, however, Elvira's anguish is rooted in the fact that she fell head over heels for the Don who had seduced and abandoned her. Meanwhile Donna Anna is doing her damnedest to avoid the dull, cautious Don Ottavio who so desperately wants her as his wife.

For some curious reason, this story rang a bell with me.

I had surrendered to Don Giovanni. I had surrendered to Don Ottavio. But why surrender again to anyone when you're finding your own way in the world?

On New Year's Eve, 1949, Eric threw a bash at his Hampshire House apartment. There must have been forty people there, not to mention a five-piece band, featuring Ronnie (naturally) on sax. My contract with Saturday/Sunday had just been renewed for another two years. Thanks to Joel Eberts, my per column price had risen to a hundred and fifty dollars. The magazine had also just appointed me as their movie critic, at an additional hundred and fifty dollars per week. And I was still writing the monthly 'Music for Middlebrows' column. All told, I would be making sixteen grand in 1950 - crazy money for such easy, fun work. Meanwhile, Eric had also just finished an extended contractual renegotiation with NBC. Besides retaining his position as Marty Manning's chief writer, the network also wanted him to develop new ideas for other shows. To keep him sweet (and out of the prying hands of CBS), they upped his salary to four hundred dollars a week, and also handed him an annual twelve-thousand-dollar consultancy fee, along with his own office and a secretary.

And so, here we were, crammed in Eric's living room overlooking Central Park, shouting 'five-four-three-two-one' as the dying moments of the nineteen-forties vanished, and we all screamed 'Happy New Year' and embraced a new decade.

After being kissed by two dozen strangers, I managed to find my brother - standing near one of the windows. A fireworks display within the park was illuminating the midnight sky. Eric - giddy on too much champagne - grabbed me in a bear hug.

'Can you believe it?' he asked me.

'Believe what?'

'You. Me. This. Everything'.

'No. I can't believe it. Nor can I believe our luck'.

Outside, there was a rat-a-tat explosion, followed by a supernova flash of streaking red, white and blue light.

'This is it, S', Eric said. 'This moment is definitely it. So savor it. Because it might not last. It might vanish overnight. But now - right now - we're winning. We've won the fucking argument. For the time being, anyway'.

The party broke up at dawn. I greeted the first sunrise of 1950 with bleary eyes. I was in desperate need of my bed. The doorman at the Hampshire House found me a cab. Back at my apartment, I fell asleep within seconds of climbing between the sheets. When I woke again, it was two in the afternoon. It was snowing outside. By night, that snowfall had upgraded itself into a major blizzard. It didn't stop until the morning of January third. The city was paralyzed by all the stacked-up snow. Venturing outside was virtually impossible for two more days. So I lived off assorted canned goods in my pantry, and managed to write a month's worth of 'Real Life' columns to make some reasonable use of this forced period of incarceration.

On the morning of January fifth, the radio reported that the city was getting back to normal. It was a bright, cold day. The streets had been cleared of snow; the sidewalks shoveled and salted. I stepped outside, and took a deep pleasing breath of bad Manhattan air. I knew I needed to do some serious grocery shopping (all my cupboards were now bare). But before I replenished my stocks, what I really craved - after five days indoors - was a long brisk walk. Riverside Park was my usual exercise yard - but this morning, I suddenly decided to head east.

So I turned right down 77th Street. I passed a series of local landmarks: the Collegiate School for Boys, Gitlitz's Delicatessen, the Belleclaire Hotel. I crossed Broadway. I walked by the shabby brownstones huddled together between Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues. I stared up at the gargantuan gothic splendour of the Museum of Natural History. I crossed Central Park West. I entered the park.

The footpaths in Central Park had yet to be cleared, so I had to negotiate the snowbound road. Within moments of walking downhill, I was no longer in New York City - rather, in some wintry corner of backwoods New England: a white, frozen landscape, in which all sound had been absorbed by the sheer density of snow.

I made my way further down the hill, then crossed over to the path that ran by the lake. There was a narrow little laneway which led down to a gazebo. I took it. When I got there, I sat down on a bench. The lake was frozen. Above it loomed the midtown skyline: proud, lofty, impervious. Of all the vistas in Manhattan, this was my favorite - the pastoral stillness of the park overshadowed by the brash mercantile splendor of this mad island. No wonder I had headed here after five days indoors. A new decade had arrived - with all its edgy promise. This was my first proper chance to acknowledge it. Where better to do it but here?

After a few minutes, I heard murmurs in the distance. A woman my age entered the gazebo. She had a lean, patrician face - an attractive severity that made me instantly categorize her as a fellow New Englander. She was pushing a stroller. I smiled at her and looked inside. Wrapped up tightly against the cold was a little boy. I felt the usual stab of sadness that now hit me every time I saw a child. As always, I masked it with a tight smile and a platitude.

'He's beautiful', I said.

'Thank you', the woman said, smiling back at me. 'I agree'.

'What's his name?'

The question was answered by another voice. The voice of a man. It was a voice I had heard before.

'His name's Charlie', the voice said.

The man - who had been two or three steps behind the woman and child - now joined us in the gazebo. Immediately, he put a proprietorial hand on the woman with the stroller. Then he turned towards me. And suddenly went white.

I felt a gasp well up in my throat. I managed to control it. Somehow - after a few seconds of shocked silence - I compelled myself to say, 'Hello'.

It also took Jack Malone a moment or two to regain his voice. Finally he forced himself to smile.

'Hello, Sara', he said.

Two

'HELLO, SARA'.

I stared at him without speaking. How long had it been? Thanksgiving Eve, 1945. Four years - give or take a month or two. Good God, four years. And somehow, some way, he'd haunted me all that time. Not a day went by when I didn't think of him. Always wondering where he was. If I would ever see him again. Or if that three-word postcard - I'm sorry... Jack - was his final statement on the matter.

Four years. Could it have evaporated so quickly? Blink once, you're a neophyte New Yorker, just out of college. Blink twice, you're a divorced woman of twenty-eight - suddenly face to face again with a man with whom you spent a night nearly fifty months ago... yet whose presence has loomed over everything since then.

I studied his face. Four years on, he still looked so damn Irish. His skin had remained ruddy, his jaw square. This altar boy was yet unlined. He was wearing a dark brown overcoat and thick leather gloves, and a flat cap. At first sight, Jack Malone was an exact facsimile of the man I'd met in 1945.

'Do you know each other?'

It was the woman talking. Check that: it was his wife. Her voice was pleasant, devoid of suspicion or mistrust - despite the evident shock experienced by myself and her husband only moments earlier. I looked at her again. Yes, she was definitely my contemporary - and pretty in a pinched sort of way. She was wearing a navy blue coat with a fur collar. She had matching gloves. Her short light brown hair was held in place by a black velvet band. She was as tall as Jack - nearly 5' 10", I reckoned - but with no bulk whatsoever. Despite her heavy coat, you could still tell that she was angular, lean. She had one of those handsome, gaunt faces which called to mind portraits of the first settlers of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. I could have easily imagined her braving the hardships of 1630s Boston with steely resolve. Though she graced me with a pleasant smile, I sensed that, if necessary, she could be most formidable.

The baby was asleep. Not a baby, really - he must have been at least three years old. A little boy. And very cute, like all little boys. Swathed in a navy blue snowsuit, with little mittens that were attached to the snowsuit with metal clips. The color of his outfit matched his mother's coat. How sweet. How adorable - to be able to color-coordinate yourself and your child. What a nice privilege - though I was certain she didn't consider it a privilege. Why would she? She had a husband, a baby. She had him, damn her. Him... and a womb that worked. Though I'm sure she probably considered that all to be her right. Her goddamn Divine Right to Motherhood, and to that Man. That loathsome, abominable, self-centered, handsome Irish...

Oh God, will you listen to me.

'Yes', I heard him saying, 'of course we know each other. Don't we, Sara?'

I snapped back to Central Park.

'Yes, we do', I managed to say.

'Sara Smythe... my wife Dorothy'.

She smiled and nodded at me. I did likewise.

'And our son Charlie, of course', he said, patting the stroller.

'How old is he?'

'Just past the three-and-a-half-year mark', Dorothy said.

I did some very fast math in my head, then gazed squarely at Jack. He averted his eyes.

'Three-and-a-half?' I said. 'A nice age, I bet'.

'Just wonderful', Dorothy said, 'especially as he's now talking. A real little chatterbox, isn't he, dear?'

'Absolutely', Jack said. 'How's your now-famous brother?'

'Flourishing', I said.

'That's how Sara and I know each other', he said to Dorothy. 'We met at a party her brother threw... when was it again?'

'Thanksgiving Eve, nineteen forty-five'.

'God, you've got a better memory than I have. And who was the guy you were with that night?'

Oh, you operator. Covering your tracks like a well-heeled thief.

'Dwight D. Eisenhower', I answered.

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by nervous laughter from Jack and Dorothy.

'You're still the fastest wit in the West', Jack said.

'Hold on', Dorothy said, 'you're not the Sara Smythe who writes for Saturday Night/Sunday Morning?'

'Yes - that's her', Jack said.

'I love your column', she said. 'I'm really a great fan'.

'Me too', Jack added.

'Thank you', I said, now staring at the ground.

She nudged her husband. 'You never told me you knew the Sara Smythe of "Sara Smythe's Real Life"'.

Jack just shrugged.

'And didn't I read in Winchell', Dorothy said, 'that your brother is one of Marty Manning's writers?'

'He's Manning's top banana', Jack added. 'His head writer'.

Without meeting Jack's eye, I said, 'You've obviously been keeping tabs on us'.

'Hey, I just read the papers like the next guy. But it's great to see you both doing so well. Please say "hi" to Eric for me'.

I nodded. Thinking, don't you remember that he really didn't like you?

'You must come over and see us sometime', Dorothy said. 'Do you live in this neighborhood?'

'Nearby, yes'.

'Us too', Jack said. 'Twenty West Eighty-Fourth Street - just off Central Park West'.

'Well, Jack and I would love to have you and your husband...'

'I'm not married', I said. Once again, Jack averted his gaze.

'Please excuse me', Dorothy said. 'That was very presumptuous of me'.

'Not at all', I said. 'I was married'.

'Oh, really?' Jack said. 'For long?'

'No - not long at all'.

'I'm so sorry', Dorothy said.

'Don't be. It was a mistake. A fast mistake'.

'Mistakes do happen', Jack said.

'Yes', I said. 'They do'.

I needed to end this conversation fast, so I glanced at my watch. 'God, look at the time', I said. 'I must be getting back'.

'You will pay us a visit?' Dorothy asked.

'Sure', I said.

'And if we wanted to get in touch with you?' Jack asked.

'I'm not in the phone book', I said. 'My number's unlisted'.

'Of course it is', Dorothy said. 'You being so famous...'

'I'm hardly famous'.

'Well, we're in the book', Jack said. 'Or you can always find me at my office'.

'Jack's with Steele and Sherwood', Dorothy said.

'The public relations agency?' I asked him. 'I thought you were a journalist?'

'I was - while there was a war to write about. Now, however, public relations is where the money is. And hey, keep this in mind: if you're ever looking for someone to bump up your public image... we're the company to do it'.

I couldn't believe his poise, the way he pretended that I was a mere casual acquaintance. Or maybe to him, I was always nothing more than that. Dorothy gave him another playful nudge.

'Will you listen to yourself', she said. 'Constantly on the make'.

'I'm serious here. Our company could do a lot for a rising young columnist like Sara. We could give you a whole new profile'.

'With or without anaesthetic?' I said. Jack and Dorothy instantly laughed.

'God, you really are the fastest wit in the West', he said. 'Nice seeing you again after so long'.

I stopped myself from saying, 'You too'.

'Nice meeting you, Dorothy', I said.

'No - the pleasure was mine. You really are my favorite journalist'.

'I'm flattered', I said.

Then, with a quick wave, I turned away and walked back toward the main footpath. When I got there, I leaned against a lamp post for a moment, and took a deep steadying breath. Then I heard their approaching voices as they too started heading this way. Instantly, I dashed across the road, then marched with speed towards the 77th Street exit. I didn't turn back, for fear of finding them behind me. I wanted to get away. Fast.

When I reached Central Park West, I hailed a taxi to take me the four long crosstown blocks to Riverside Drive. As soon as I reached my building, I slammed my apartment door behind me, tossed my coat over the sofa, and began to pace my living room. Yes, I was manic. Yes, I was unnerved. Yes, I was deeply, deeply thrown.

That bastard. That heartbreaking bastard.

How old is he?

Just past the three-and-a-half-year mark.

Three-and-a-half. A nice age.

Three-and-a-half meant that Charlie was born in the early summer of '46. If he was 'just past' that mark, that meant conception would have taken place in...

I started ticking off the months on my fingers. June, May, April, March, February, January, December, November, October...

October, '45.

Oh, you complete, total s.o.b. She was already up the spout when you worked your gimcrack magic on me.

And to think - to goddamn think - of the idiotic, schoolgirl way I bought your act. The thousands of wasted words I poured out in letters to you. The absurd months of pining while I waited to hear from you. And then... then!.. that one terse postcard.

I'm sorry.

And now I knew why. Just as I also knew that, for the past few years, he'd been tracking my career. He knew I'd been writing for Saturday/Sunday, just as he knew of Eric's success. He could have easily made contact with me through the magazine. Not, of course, that the charmer would have ever dreamed of doing something so upfront and straightforward.

I kicked a table. I cursed myself for being such a fool, for over-reacting, for still finding him so damn attractive. I went to the kitchen. I found a bottle of J&B Scotch in a cabinet. I poured myself a shot and threw it back, thinking: I never drink before sunset. But I was in need of something strong. Because of all the jumbled emotions whirling around my brain right now, the most predominant one was sheer, absolute longing for that bloody man. I wanted to hate him - to despise him for his dishonesty, and for the snow job he perpetrated on me. Better yet, I wanted to dismiss him from my thoughts with detached coolness - to shrug my shoulders and move on. But here I was - less than twenty minutes after seeing him - feeling simultaneously furious and covetous. I so loathed him. I so wanted him. For the life of me I couldn't fathom the instantaneous rush of shock, anger and desire when I first saw him in the park. All right, the shock and the anger I could comprehend. But that ardent surge of sheer want had thrown me completely. And left me in desperate need of another small Scotch.

After downing the second shot, I put away the bottle - and left the apartment. I forced myself to eat lunch at a local coffee shop, then decided to lose myself in a double feature at my neighborhood fleapit, the Beacon. The B-movie part of the program was some forgettable war picture with Cornell Wilde and Ward Bond. But the main feature - Adam's Rib with Hepburn and Tracey - was a complete delight: smart, sassy, and urbane (not to mention set in the world of magazines - which amused me no end). Not only do movie stars get the best lines, they also land themselves in on-screen romantic conundrums that are inevitably resolved... or which end with wonderful tragic gravitas. For the rest of us mere mortals, things never turn out so clearcut. It's always a state of ongoing mess.

I returned home around six. As soon as I walked through the door, the phone began to ring. I answered it.

'Hello there', he said.

Immediately, my heart skipped a beat.

'Are you still on the line, Sara?' Jack asked.

'Yes. I'm still here'.

'So your number's not unlisted after all'.

I said nothing.

'Not that I blame you for telling me it was'.

'Jack - I really don't want to talk to you'.

'I know why. And I deserve that. But if I could just...'

'What? Explain?'

'Yes - I'd like to try to explain'.

'I don't want to hear your excuses'.

'Sara...'

'No. No excuses. No explanations. No justifications'.

'I'm sorry. You don't know how sorry...'

'Congratulations. You deserve to be sorry. Sorry for deceiving me. For deceiving her. She was part of your life when you met me, wasn't she?'

Silence.

'Well, wasn't she?'

'These things are never simple'.

'Oh, please...'

'When I met you, I didn't...'

'Jack, like I said, I don't want to know. So just go away. We have nothing to say to each other anymore'.

'Yes, we do...'he said with vehemence. 'Because for the last four years

'I'm putting the phone down now...'

'... for the last four years I have thought about you every hour of every day'.

Long silence.

'Why are you telling me this now?' I finally asked.

'Because it's the truth'.

'I don't believe you'.

'I'm not surprised. And yes, yes... I know I should have written... Should have answered all those amazing letters you sent me. But...'

'I really don't want to hear any more of this, Jack'.

'Please meet me'.

'No way'.

'Look, I'm on Broadway and Eighty-Third Street. I could be at your place in five minutes'.

'How the hell do you know where I live?'

'The phone book'.

'And let me guess what you told your wife... that you were going out for a pack of cigarettes and a little fresh air. Right?'

'Yeah', he said reluctantly. 'Something like that'.

'Surprise, surprise. More lies'.

'At least let me buy you a cup of coffee. Or a drink...'

'Goodbye'.

'Sara, please... give me a chance'.

'I did. Remember?'

I put down the phone. Instantly it rang again. I lifted the receiver.

'Just ten minutes of your time', Jack said. 'That's all I ask'.

'I gave you eight months of my time... and what did you do with it?'

'I made a terrible mistake'.

'Finally - a hint of self-knowledge. I'm not interested. Just go away, and never call me again'.

I hung up, then took the phone off the hook.

I fought the temptation of another bracing shot of Scotch. A few minutes later, my intercom rang. Oh Jesus, he was here. I went into the kitchen and lifted the intercom's earpiece, then shouted:

'I told you, I never want to see you again'.

'There's a coffee shop on the corner', Jack said, his voice cracking on the bad line. 'I'll wait there for you'.

'Don't waste your time', I said. 'I'm not coming'.

Then I hung up.

For the next half-an-hour I tried to do things. I dealt with a day's worth of dirty dishes in the sink. I made myself a cup of coffee. I brought it over to my desk. I sat down and attempted to proofread the four columns I had written during the blizzard. Finally, I got up, grabbed my coat and headed out.

It was a two-minute walk from my building to Gitlitz's Delicatessen. He was sitting in a booth near the door. A cup of coffee was in front of him, as well as an ashtray with four stubbed-out butts. As I walked in, he was lighting up another Lucky Strike. He jumped to his feet, an anxious smile on his face.

'I was starting to give up hope...' he said.

'Give up hope', I said, sliding into the booth. 'Because ten minutes from now, I'm walking out of here'.

'It is so wonderful to see you', he said, sitting back down opposite me. 'You don't know how wonderful...'

I cut him off.

'I could use a cup of coffee', I said.

'Of course, of course', he said, motioning to the waitress. 'And what do you want to eat?'

'Nothing'.

'You sure?'

'I have no appetite'.

He reached for my hand. I pulled it away.

'You look so damn beautiful, Sara'.

I glanced at my watch. 'Nine minutes, fifteen seconds. Your time's running out, Jack'.

'You really hate me, don't you?'

I dodged that one by glancing back at my watch. 'Eight minutes, forty-five seconds'.

'I made a very bad call'.

'Words is cheap... as they say in Brooklyn'.

He winced, then took a deep drag on his cigarette. The waitress arrived with my coffee.

'You're right', he said. 'What I did was inexcusable'.

'All you had to do was answer one of my letters. You got them all, didn't you?'

'Yes, all of them. They were fantastic, extraordinary. So extraordinary I've kept them all'.

'I'm touched. Next thing you're going to tell me is you showed them all to... what was her name again?'

'Dorothy'.

'Ah yes, Dorothy. Very Wizard of Oz. Let me guess: you met her in Kansas with her little dog Toto...'

I shut myself up. 'I think I should leave', I said.

'Don't. Sara, I am so damn sorry...'

'I must have written you... what?'

'Thirty-two letters, forty-four postcards', he said.

I looked at him carefully.

'That's a very precise inventory'.

'I prized each and every one of them'.

'Oh, please. Lies I can just about handle. But schmaltzy lies...'

'It's the truth'.

'I don't believe you'.

'She was pregnant, Sara. I didn't know that when I met you'.

'But you obviously knew her, some way or another, when you met me. Otherwise she couldn't have become pregnant by you. Or have I got that wrong too?'

He sighed heavily, exhaling a lungful of smoke.

'I met her in August forty-five. Stars and Stripes had just transferred me back to England after that assignment in Germany. I was doing a three-month stint at their main European bureau, which happened to be located at Allied HQ just outside of London. Dorothy was working at HQ as a typist. She'd just graduated from college - and had volunteered her services to the military. "I had this romantic idea of wanting to do my bit for the war effort," she later told me. "I saw myself as some Hemingway heroine, working in a field hospital." Instead, the Army made her a secretary in London. One day, during a coffee break in the canteen, we got talking. She was bored in the typing pool. I was bored rewriting other journalists all day. We started seeing each other after work. We started sharing a bed. It wasn't love. It wasn't passion. It was just... something to do. A way of passing the time in the Ho-Hum capital of England. Sure, we liked each other. But we both knew that this was just one of those passing flings, with no future beyond our stint in England.

'A couple of months later, at the start of November, I was told I was going to cover the start of postwar reconstruction in Germany... but could first take some leave in the States. When I broke the news to her that I was departing, she was a little sad... but also realistic. It had been pleasant. We liked each other. And I thought she was really swank. Hell, I was a Catholic mick from Brooklyn, whereas she was this classy Episcopalian from Mount Kisco. I went to Erasmus High. She went to Rosemary Hall and Smith. She was way out of my league. She knew this too - though she was too damn nice to ever say that to me. Part of me was flattered that she'd even deigned to spend time with me. But stuff like this happens during wartime. She's there, you're there... so, why not?

'Anyway, I sailed from England on November tenth, never expecting to see Dorothy again. Two weeks later, I met you. And...'

He broke off, stubbing out his cigarette. Then he fished out another Lucky Strike and lit it up.

'And what?' I asked quietly.

'I knew'.

Silence.

'It was immediate and instantaneous', he said. 'A complete jolt. But I knew'.

I stared down into my coffee cup. I said nothing. He reached again for my hand. I kept it flat on the table. His fingers touched mine. I felt myself shudder. I wanted to pull my hand away again. I didn't move it. When he spoke again, his voice was a near-whisper:

'Everything I said to you that night, I meant. Everything, Sara'.

'I don't want to hear this'.

'Yes, you do'.

Now I pulled my hand away. 'No, I don't'.

'You knew, Sara'.

'Yes, of course I fucking knew', I hissed. 'Thirty-two letters, forty-four postcards... and you ask me if I knew. I didn't simply miss you. I longed for you. I didn't want to, but I did. And when you didn't respond...'

He reached inside his overcoat and pulled out two envelopes. He placed them in front of me.

'What's this?' I asked.

'Two letters I wrote you, but never sent'.

I stared down at them. The envelopes were embossed with the US Army seal. They both looked worn and a little aged.

'The first letter was written on the ship back to Germany', he said. 'I was planning to mail this to you as soon as we docked in Hamburg. But when I arrived there, a letter was waiting for me from Dorothy, telling me she was pregnant. I immediately requested a weekend leave, and took the boat-train to London. On the way there, I made up my mind to tell her that, much as I liked her, I couldn't marry her. Because...' another deep drag of his cigarette '... because I wasn't in love with her. And because I had met you. But when I got to England, she...'

'What? Fell into your arms? Cried? Said that she was so afraid you were going to abandon her? Then told you she loved you?'

'Yeah - all of the above. She also said her family would disown her if she had the child on her own. Having since met them, I know she was telling the truth. Don't blame her...'

'Why the hell would I blame her? Had I been in her position, I would have done exactly the same thing'.

'I felt I had no choice. The old Jesuit teaching kicked in: you are accountable for your actions... you cannot escape the sins of the flesh... all that enlightened Catholic guilt stuff compelled me to tell her that, yes, I would marry her'.

'That was very responsible of you'.

'She's a decent woman. We don't have major problems. We get along. It's... amiable, I guess'.

I made no comment. After a moment, he touched one of the envelopes and said, 'I wrote the second letter to you on my way back to Hamburg. In it, I explained...'

'I really don't want to know your explanations', I said, pushing both letters back towards him.

'At least take them home and read them...'

'What's the point? What happened happened... and over four years ago. We had a night together. I thought it might be the start of something. I was wrong. C'est la vie. End of story. I'm not angry at you for "doing your duty" and marrying Dorothy. It's just... you could have saved me a lot of grief and heartache had you just come clean with me, and told me what was going on'.

'I wanted to. That's what the second letter was about. I wrote it on the boat-train back to Hamburg. But when I arrived there, and found three of your letters waiting for me, I panicked. I didn't know what to do'.

'So you decided that the best approach was to do nothing. To refuse to answer my letters. To keep me dangling. Or maybe you just hoped I'd finally get the message and vanish?'

He stared down into his coffee cup, and fell silent. Eventually I spoke. 'Ego te absolvo... is that what you want me to say? Shame I could have dealt with. Guilt I could have dealt with. The truth I could have dealt with. But you chose silence. After swearing love to me - which is a huge thing to swear to anybody - you couldn't face up to the simple ethical problem of coming clean with me'.

'I didn't want to hurt you...'

'Oh, Jesus Christ - don't feed me that dumb cliche', I said, a wave of anger hitting me. 'You hurt me more by keeping me in the dark. And then when you deigned to send a postcard to me, what was your message? "I'm sorry." After eight months and all those letters, that's all you could say. How I despised you when that card arrived on my doormat'.

'Sometimes we do things we don't even understand ourselves'.

He stubbed out the cigarette. He was about to light up another one, but thought better of it. He looked disconcerted and sad - as if he didn't know what to do next.

'I really should go', I said.

I started to stand up, but he took my hand.

'I've known exactly where you've lived for the past couple of years. I've read everything you've written in Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. I've wanted to call you every day'.

'But you didn't'.

'Because I couldn't. Until today. When I saw you in the park, I knew immediately that...'

I removed his hand from mine, and interrupted him. 'Jack, this is pointless'.

'Please let me see you again'.

'I don't go out with married men. And you are married, remember?'

I turned and moved quickly out the front door, not looking back to see if he was following me. The January night air was like a slap across the face. I was about to turn back west towards my apartment, but feared that he might come calling again. So I headed south down Broadway, ducking into a bar in the lobby of the Ansonia Hotel. I sat at a table near the door. I downed a J&B. I called for one more.

'Sometimes we do things we don't even understand ourselves'.

Yes - like falling in love with you.

I threw some money on the table. I stood up and left. I hailed a cab. I told him to head downtown. When we reached 34th Street, I told him to head back uptown. The cabbie was bemused by this sudden change of direction.

'Lady, do you have any idea where you're going?' he asked.

'None at all', I said.

I had the cab drop me in front of my apartment. Much to my relief, Jack wasn't loitering outside. But he had paid me a visit, as the two envelopes were waiting for me on the inside front door mat. I picked them up. I let myself into my apartment. I took off my coat. I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. I tossed both letters into the trash can. I made myself a cup of tea. I went into the living room. I put on a Budapest String Quartet recording of Mozart's K 421 quartet. I sat on the sofa and tried to listen to the music. After five minutes, I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and retrieved the letters from the trash. I sat down at the kitchen table. I laid the envelopes before me. I stared down at them for a long time, willing myself not to open them. The Mozart played on. Eventually, I picked up the first envelope. It was addressed to my old Bedford Street apartment. The address was smudged, as if it had been briefly exposed to rain. The envelope itself was crumpled, worn, aged. But it was still sealed. I tore it open. Inside was a single piece of Stars and Stripes stationery. Jack's handwriting was clear, fluent, easy to decipher.

November 27th, 1945

My beautiful Sara,

So here I am - somewhere off the coast of Nova Scotia. We've been at sea for two days now. Another week to go before we dock in Hamburg. My 'state room' could be politely called 'intimate' (it's 10'x6' - the size of a jail cell). It's also less than private, as I share it with five other guys, two of whom are congenital snorers. Leave it to the Army to figure out a way of fitting six soldiers into a broom closet. No wonder we won the War.

When we hoisted anchor in Brooklyn two days ago, I had to stop myself from jumping overboard, swimming to shore, hopping the subway back to Manhattan, and knocking on your Bedford Street door. But that would have cost me a year in the brig - whereas this current penal sentence is only nine more months. And you better be waiting for me at the Brooklyn Naval Yards when we dock in September... otherwise I might do something rash and self-destructive, like becoming a Christian Brother.

What can I say, Miss Smythe? Only this: people always talk about that thing called at first sight. I never believed in it myself... and always thought it was the stuff of bad movies (usually starring Jane Wyman).

But maybe the reason I didn't believe in it was because it didn't happen to me. Until you.

Isn't life wonderfully absurd? On my last night in New York I crash a party I shouldn't be at, and... there you are. And almost immediately, I thought: I am going to marry her.

And I will... if you'll have me.

All right, I'm being a little premature. All right, I'm probably getting a little carried away. But love is supposed to make you a little impetuous and daffy.

Our staff sergeant is calling us for mess duty, so I've got to end here. This gets mailed the moment I reach Hamburg. In the meantime, I will only think of you night-and-day.

Love,

Jack

As soon as I finished reading the letter, I read it again. And again after that. How I wanted to be distrustful, sceptical, hard-boiled. But instead all I could feel was sadness. A sense of what was there between us in the immediate aftermath of that night. A sense of what might have been.

I picked up the other envelope. Just as smudged, just as crumpled. A reminder that paper - like people - ages noticeably after four years.

January 3rd, 1946

Dear Sara,

I did some math today, and worked out that it has been thirty-seven days since I said goodbye to you in Brooklyn. I set sail that day, thinking: I have met the love of my life. All the way across the Atlantic, I started scheming of ways I could legally get myself out of being an Army journalist and back to you in Manhattan without facing a court martial.

Then, when we docked in Hamburg, there was a letter waiting for me. A letter which has turned my life upside down.

For the next five paragraphs, he told me the story of how he had met an American typist named Dorothy while stationed in England, how it had been a passing fling, and how it had ended in early November.

But then - upon docking last week in Hamburg - he had received word from her that she was pregnant. He'd visited her in London. Dorothy had cried with relief when he arrived - as she feared he might abandon her. But he wasn't the abandoning type.

All actions have a potential consequence. Sometimes we get lucky and dodge the repercussions. Sometimes we pay the price. Which is what I am doing now.

This is the hardest letter I've ever written - because you are the woman I want to be with for the rest of my life. Yes, I feel that absolute, that certain. How do I know? I just know.

But there is nothing I can do to change the situation. I must do the responsible thing. I must marry Dorothy.

I want to beat my head against a wall, and curse myself for losing you. Because I know that, from this moment onwards, you will haunt my every move.

I love you.

I am so sorry.

Try, somehow, to forgive me.

Jack

Oh, you fool. You big dumb fool. Why the hell didn't you send this letter? I would have understood. I would have believed you. I would have forgiven you on the spot. I would have coped. I would have eventually gotten over it. And I would have never started hating you.

But you couldn't face... what? Hurting me? Letting me down? Or simply admitting the whole damn lousy business?

But the act of admission - of owning up to a mistake, an error of judgment, a bad call - is sometimes the hardest thing imaginable. Especially when, like Jack, you suddenly find yourself cornered by a biological accident.

'You really believe his story?' Eric asked me later that night on the phone.

'In a way, it makes sense, and explains...'

'What? The fact that he's a moral coward, who couldn't give you the benefit of the truth?'

'He did tell me that he'd made a terrible mistake'.

'We all make terrible mistakes. Sometimes they're forgiven, sometimes they're not. The question is: do you want to forgive him?'

Long pause. I finally said, 'Isn't forgiveness always easier for everyone involved?'

Eric sighed loudly.

'Sure - and while you're at it, why don't you shoot yourself in the foot with a tommy gun, pausing twice to reload'.

'Ouch'.

'You asked for my opinion, there it is. But, S - you're a big girl. Believe him if you want. You know what happened before. For your sake, I hope it doesn't happen again. So if you want a tencent piece of advice: caveat emptor'.

'There's nothing to buy here, Eric. He's married, for God's sakes'.

'Since when has "being married" ever stopped anyone from engaging in extra-marital stupidity?'

'I won't be stupid here, Eric'.

I really had no intention of being foolish. At three in the morning - having finally let insomnia win that night's war - I sat down at my desk and typed a letter.

January 6th, 1950

Dear Jack,

Who was it who said that hindsight was always 20/20? Or that if you come to a fork in the road, you should always take it? I'm glad I read your letters... which I am returning to you now. They explained a lot. They made me sad - because, like you, I too felt something close to certainty in the aftermath of that Thanksgiving night. But everyone comes equipped with a back story... and yours mitigated against any future between us. I don't feel rancor or animosity towards you because of Dorothy. I just wished you'd had the courage to mail those letters.

You intimated that you have a reasonably good marriage. Having myself made a very bad marriage, 'reasonably good' sounds more than reasonably good to me. You should consider yourself a lucky man.

In closing, may I wish you and your family all good things for the future.

Yours,

And I signed it Sara Smythe. Because I wanted to be doubly sure that he got the letter's underlying message: goodbye.

I looked up the address of Steele and Sherwood in the phone book. I found a large manila envelope and addressed the letter to him there. I threw on some clothes, dashed to the mailbox on the corner of Riverside Drive and 77th Street, then dashed back to my apartment. I got undressed and climbed back into bed. I could now sleep.

But I didn't sleep late. Because, at eight a.m., the intercom began to buzz. I staggered into the kitchen to answer it. It was someone from my local florist. My heart immediately sank. I answered the door. The delivery guy handed me a dozen red roses. Inside was a card:

I love you.

Jack

I put the flowers in water. I tore up the card. I spent the day away from my apartment - loitering with intent in a variety of midtown screening rooms, watching this month's releases for my movie column. When I got home that night, I was relieved to see no letters awaiting me on the inside doormat.

At eight the next morning, however, the intercom rang again.

'Handleman's Flowers'.

Oh, God...

This time, I received a dozen pink carnations. And, of course, a card:

Please forgive me. Please call me.

Love, Jack

I put the flowers in water. I tore up the card. I prayed that my letter would arrive at his office this morning, and that he would get the message and leave me be.

But, at eight the following morning... buzz.

'Handleman's Flowers'.

'What's it today?' I asked the delivery guy.

'A dozen lilies'.

'Take them back'.

'Sorry, lady', he said, thrusting them into my hand. 'A delivery is a delivery'.

I found my third (and last) vase. I arranged the flowers. I opened the card.

I am taking the fork in the road.

And I still love you.

Jack

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him. I grabbed my coat and stormed off in the direction of Broadway - to a Western Union office on 72nd Street. Once there, I went over to the main counter and picked up a telegram form and a much-chewed pencil. I wrote: