Eleanor and Clayton Starrett sat at a round table for eight, and directly across from Clayton was Bob Farber's new wife. She was a petite young woman wearing a strapless gown of silver lame, but all he could see above the starched tablecloth were the bare top of her bosom, bare shoulders and arms, bare neck, and head topped with a plaited crown of blond hair. It was easy to imagine her sitting there absolutely naked, amiably chatting with her husband, laughing, her sharp white teeth nibbling a shrimp.
He tried not to stare but, uncontrollable, his gaze wandered back. She seemed to him soft, warm, succulent. And beside him sat his hard, cold, bony wife.
He dreamed of the day when he might be seen in public with his new wife, Helene. He would wear her proudly: a badge of honor. Her youth, beauty, and sexuality would prove his manhood and virility. What a conquest Helene would be. What a trophy!
His wife kicked his shin sharply under the table. "You're allowed to blink occasionally, you know," she said in a low, venomous voice, smiling for all the other diners to see. "You keep staring like that and your eyeballs will fall into your soup."
"What are you talking about?" he said, injured.
Eleanor paid him no more attention, for which he was thankful. He sneaked continual peeks at Mrs. Farber and let his fantasies run amok. The candlelfght gave her flesh a rosy glow, and he dreamed of Helene, a fireplace, a bearskin rug.
The remainder of the party was endured only by drinking too much wine. At least, he told himself, he had sense enough not to dance. Eleanor was a miserable dancer, stiff and unrhythmic, and Clayton didn't dare ask Mrs. Farber lest he might suddenly become frenzied, wrestle her to the floor, and then… He shook his head. He could, he reflected gloomily, get twenty years for what he was thinking. Just for thinking about it.
He put his wineglass aside and rushed out onto the terrace. He stood there, breathing deeply of the cold night air, until his brain cleared and his ardor cooled. Then he was able to think rationally, more or less, and felt frustrated that so much time-perhaps a year!-must elapse before his dreams might be realized.
Eleanor was silent on the ride home, and so was he. They remained silent when they were alone in their suite, and finally this embittered silence convinced him that now was the moment. If he was going to do it, then do it. So, as she was removing her jewelry, he said, almost casually, "Eleanor, I want a divorce."
Her reaction was totally unexpected. He had thought she might faint, scream, weep, or at least express disbelief. Instead, she nodded, continued to take off her jewels, and said coolly, "It's Helene Pierce, isn't it?"
"What?" he said, aghast. "What are you talking about?"
She stopped what she was doing and turned to face him. "You're really brainless, Clay-you know that? I knew it before we were married, and nothing you've done since has changed my mind."
"I swear to you," he said hotly, "Helene and I have never-"
"Oh, cut the bullshit," she interrupted in a tone of great disgust. "You've been banging her since the day you met. Do you take me for a complete idiot? I've seen the way you look at her. The same way you looked at Bob Farber's new wife tonight. Is that what gave you the idea, Clay?"
"I'm telling you there's nothing between Helene and me."
"Laughing at her feeble jokes," Eleanor went on relentlessly. "Agreeing with all her stupid opinions. Rushing to help her on with her coat. Any excuse to touch her. There's no fool like an old fool, Clay."
"I'm not old," he shouted at her. "And you're dead wrong about all those things. I was just trying to be a good host."
"Oh sure," his wife jeered. "That's why you made certain you sat next to her every time she came to dinner. Playing a little kneesy, Clay? Listen, don't ever get the idea that the wife is the last to know. The wife is the first to know. When her rotten husband starts being extra pleasant and accommodating. When he starts buying clothes too young for him and gets facials. That's you, Clay. You're really a moron if you think I haven't known what's been going on. Sure, you can have a divorce, sonny boy, but it's going to cost you an arm and a leg, now and forever."
"Believe me," he said wrathfully, "whatever it costs, it'll be worth it to dump a sour, dried-up hag like you."
Still she would not weep. "Oh, Helene will marry you," she said, showing her teeth in a mirthless grin. "That greedy bitch has a bottom-line mentality. I give it a year, and then she'll walk. That's another alimony check every month, Clay. Then you'll find a new conversation piece- and I do mean piece- and do it again, and keep on doing it until you grow up, which will be never. You're a victim of your glands, Clay."
"Just have your attorney contact Arthur Rushkin in the morning," he said stiffly.
"With pleasure," his wife said. "Before I get through with you, you'll be lucky to have fillings in your teeth. Did you tell your mother about this?"
"Yes."
"Poor Olivia," she said. "She's the one I feel sorry for. She's had more than her share of troubles lately. But she's a tough lady; she'll survive. I'm sure she already knew her only son was short-changed in the brains department. Now I'm going to bed, Clay, and I think it would be best if you slept somewhere else."
He was outraged. "Where am I going to go at this time of night?" he demanded.
"You can go to hell," Eleanor spat at him. "You miserable shit!"