The Polka Dot Nude (8 page)

It was blind luck that Eileen found out about Hume Mason. Eileen! I should phone her, but if I did, she’d urge me on to a faster pace, when I knew in my bones I couldn’t write a word. Especially I couldn’t compete with creamy, heaving bosoms and shuddering loins. I needed a very strong shock treatment. I put on my bathing suit, went down to the dock, and dove in, without even feeling the water first. It was every bit as cold as I remembered. I swam halfway to the island, then swam back and got out, panting, so numb that all sensation was gone from my body. Only my mind was active, as active as ever, and as frustrated.

I didn’t wait till seven to call on Brad O’Malley. I saw his car under the tree when I went to my front door. With a towel wrapped around my waist like a sarong, I strode to the door and rapped sharply.

“Come on in,” he called from the kitchen. “Hi, Audrey. Be right with you. The beer’s in the fridge. I’m just starting dinner. I hope you like chicken liver and pasta.”

“Spaghetti Caruso?” I called back.

“Yeah, do you like it?”

He hadn’t slipped the pans in the oven yet. No wild aromas pervaded the cottage this time. “Why don’t you just take one of the frozen cartons from you freezer? I won’t be joining you tonight.”

His head peeked around the doorjamb. You never saw such a guilty-looking man. “Say what?”

“You heard me.”

His body followed his head around the doorjamb. He wore a curious, confused look that turned to wariness when he got a look at me. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

“What could possibly be the matter? I’m fine. I’ll be very busy. As you know, I’m writing an authorized biography of Rosalie Hart. I didn’t bring along the other diary you asked for. In fact, I’d like you to return the pages you cut out of the previous one—you remember, the pages dealing with Rosalie’s pregnancy. You’ll have to make do with what you’ve already read, and that active imagination of yours. But then you wouldn’t want to wreck your book with too many facts, Mr. Mason.”

He advanced slowly into the room. In his hand he held a wooden spoon, and he wore an apron with a picture of a smiling chef on it. He looked bewildered. “Could you run that by me again in slow motion?” he asked, blinking.

“Run it out your ear. I know who you are, and I know what you’re up to, and I want you to know I think you’re disgusting and vile.”

“Are we talking frozen dinners here?” he asked. “Listen, I really am a great chef. I made those dinners myself. I just took them out of my freezer at home . . ."

“I’m not talking about your lousy dinners! It’s the reason for them we’re discussing.”

“Hey, no strings attached!”

I was panting so hard I could hardly talk, but I couldn’t keep quiet either. “Look, I know you don’t really like me. If a three-legged, bearded lady had had those diaries, you’d have been in there, wooing her with your frozen boeuf bourguignon and your Château de Snob. You must think I’m an
idiot.”

“Just unhinged,” he smiled uneasily, and came closer, reaching for my arm. “Come and sit down. I’ll pour you . . ."

I twitched away. “Alcohol isn’t going to work either. And if you were counting on continued access to
my
research for
your
book, you can forget that too. I suggest you pack up your fancy car and trot your Madrid chair and your Cuisinart back to whatever rock you crawled out from under.”

“That’s ‘Barcelona chair.’ Listen, if you think I’m using Rosalie’s diaries for a book or something, you’ve got it all wrong. That seems to be the gist of your tirade.”

“Part of it, not the gist. The gist is that the masquerade is over, Mr. Mason.”

“Mr. Mason?” he repeated dumbly.

“As in Hume, pornographer, sleazebag Mason. You can call Ms. Vicki at Belton and tell her you struck out. You’ll have to move your ass and actually do some work yourself. You should be good at digging up dirt by now, you son of a bitch.”

He actually had the nerve to smile! “Ah.—you swear when you’re mad. That’s good. Relieves the tension. But I don’t understand what you’re mad about. Did I have a visitor while I was out? Did some phone call get misrouted to you? Where’d you get these crazy ideas?”

“Vicki didn’t phone, or arrive in person. Funny you should think she had, when you claim to be ignorant.”

“I
am
ignorant!
Innocent!
What I’m trying to find out is what put this bee in your bonnet.”

“I had a revelation. A prelapsarian revelation.”

"Sounds painful.” He gave me a doubtful look.

“Bullshit!” I shouted in exasperation, and stormed out, clutching at my slipping sarong.

Just as I reached my door, Brad opened his and called after me: “Does this mean you’re breaking our date tonight?”

“You figure it out, Professor.”

A little later, as soon as he had got the frozen food into the oven, Brad opened his windows to let the fumes of spaghetti Caruso waft gently toward my door. I closed it. Actually the very thought of eating anything’s liver turns my stomach, so it was no lure.

The confrontation cleared the air, and my head. I’d done the right thing to have it out. I went determinedly back to work and pounded the typewriter till my head ached. The adrenaline was flowing. Words magically strung themselves together into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, till I had five pages full—also one ashtray. After I emptied it, I opened the fridge for a beer, to reward myself. Then, after the store was closed, I remembered I was out of beer. I opened the door again to clear away the smoke, and was surrounded by the tantalizing smell of garlic and onions, oregano and chicken, which did not smell like livers at all. I closed the door again and made coffee, to drive away the other odors.

I turned on the TV and sat staring at the moving pictures, without really seeing them. I looked at the phone, which didn’t ring; at the door, which was silent; then I looked within myself for entertainment. There was only one possible subject to consider, so I thought of it.

I’d shown him a thing or two. He must feel like two cents, and the wretch didn’t even have the manners to apologize, or try to explain. You’d think he’d phone up and say he was sorry at least. After all, we were both adults. I didn’t expect a man to be a saint. God, after Garth I didn’t expect much of men, but this went beyond even Garth Schuyler’s duplicity. There’s some excuse for passion; this was a coldly, carefully planned deception. It was Belton’s fault, for offering him so much money. It wasn’t, though.

Belton hadn’t told him how to get his research. Belton hadn’t told him to call me “sensational.” Hadn’t he meant any of it? By nine, I decided that if he came suitably attired in sackcloth and ashes, we might discuss the matter. There would be no forgiving, but we could discuss. By nine-thirty I realized the elegant Mr. Mason wouldn’t be caught in sackcloth, even if it had a Gucci label.

At nine thirty-five, he went to his car, wearing a light-colored suit. A man didn’t put on a suit to go out alone, say to a drive-in movie. A suit like that was for a date—maybe dancing. I felt as angry and cheated as if he’d broken the date, instead of me. At least he wasn’t writing tonight. I had already worked past the saturation point, so in a fit of boredom, I opened
Love’s Last Longing,
and became lost in the perils of an innocent child-woman bearing the unlikely name of Melora with eyes of an unconvincing turquoise shade. She was taken captive by a Mogul emperor during some long-ago war.

I read till my eyes ached, marveling how Rosalie Wildewood could ever conceive of such a heroine, who juggled the moon and stars with one hand, while the emperor nibbled from the other. She nobly spurned his offer to wear the empress’s crown, choosing instead to be a kitchen slave. Easy for Melora. She knew a prince was lurking in the next chapter. I wondered what he was like, and before I knew it, I was reading again. I literally couldn’t put it down.

Lorraine Taylor didn’t phone back. I went on hoping for quite a while, because of the time difference. When my eyes got too tired to read, I went down to the dock to look at the moon and the water. No emperor or prince sailed up to kidnap me. I must have been crazy to come here, out in the sticks, with nothing to do once the sun set. I drove into town and had a bottle of beer alone at a bar. I left half of it when some Neanderthal in a leather jacket tried to hit on me. I drove home by a circuitous route, in case he took it into his head to follow me. Brad’s car still wasn’t back. The Simcoes’ curtains juggled, timing me in. Old Simcoe would be regretting this rift between us two red-hot lovers.

I wondered what Brad had said to him, to give him the idea we were an item. I felt suddenly frightened, alone in the cottage. I locked the door, but the Neanderthal from the bar, or someone like him, could get in without much trouble. I wouldn’t go out alone again at night. But I’d make sure to get in a supply of beer and Coke.

I wanted to hear a human voice, and made the mistake of phoning Mom. She asked three or four times how I was, meaning was I suicidal about Garth and Helen. When I convinced her I was all right, she told me about some new wedding presents that people had sent. I told her the book was going fine, and no, I wasn’t lonesome. There was a terrific guy next door. His name was Simcoe, I said. Eddie Simcoe. He was chasing after me so hard I couldn’t get any work done.

“Jerome called,” she said, as a crumb. Jerome Hespeler, literally the boy next door. A dear, sweet man, with less sex appeal in his entire body than Brad had in his little finger. He must have noticed
my
green complexion at the wedding. I’d give Jerome a call when I got back to New York. Safe, sexless men were beginning to seem a good idea.

CHAPTER 6

June 21, the first day of summer, and the longest day of the year. Why did I have to make it
even longer by waking up at seven o’clock sharp? It was the crows yammering in the pine trees that caused it. Crickets chirping all night and crows all day—how was a person supposed to get any sleep? There was no background noise to mitigate the animal sounds either, no comfortable roar of traffic, no calming wail of a police or ambulance siren. I was definitely unbalanced to have come to this godforsaken spot. Still groggy, I padded into the kitchen to make coffee and let it perk while I showered and sorted out my day. Rosalie’s funeral was this afternoon at three; that’d be six eastern time. It should be on the late news.

By seven-thirty I was at my typewriter, not knowing whether I was writing a high-class biography with a theme, or a poor imitation of Hume Mason quickie. Whatever else it was, it had to be fast, so I banged away, mindless of the nuances of style, mood, and tone; just getting down the facts, ma’am.

At eight there was a tap at the door. Probably Simcoe coming to tell me I was typing too loud, disturbing the wife’s vigil at the window. A scowl deepened to a glower when I pull the door open on Brad O’Malley. He was resplendent in a blue-and-white striped seersucker suit, all freshly shaved and combed, and smelling of whatever expensive scent he used.

“Whatever you want, the answer is no,” I said baldly, and slammed the door. Or tried to.

He got the toe of his Gucci in it and pulled it open again before the lock caught. “You better wait to hear what I’ve got to say. It’s not a request. I’m leaving.”

“Good! If I’d had one wish, that would be it.” My exclamation was loud and clear, and totally insincere. I felt as though the bottom was falling out of my stomach.

“Don’t hire a band yet. I’ll be back,” he said grimly.

My stomach began rising again. “You can’t win ‘em all.”

“I tried to figure out what you were talking about, after you left yesterday. You think I’m Hume Mason, right?”

“I
know
you’re Hume Mason, Mr. Mason. Maybe you’re Brad O’Malley too. I know if I wrote that kind of crap, I’d use an alias.”

“Pen name is the word you’re looking for. Pseudonym would do. Alias has a whiff of criminality to it.”

“Thanks for the lecture, Professor. I’ll stick to alias.”

“Don’t you want to hear why I’m leaving?”

“I never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“The reason I’m here is that I had a call from my wife last night. My son’s in the hospital. Fell out of a tree, broke his leg rather badly. I have to go and see him.” He examined me for traces of softening, and found instead a new rigidity.

“You neglected to mention there’s a Mrs. Mason.”

“We’ve been divorced for years,” he said, dismissing wife, child, and marriage with a wave of his hand.

“I can believe that. The mystery is how you ever talked anyone into marrying
you
in the first place.” This speech was accompanied by a wrestling match, during which I succeeded in shoving him physically out the door.

Once he was out, I went to the window to make sure he really left. He only took one of his Vuitton bags with him. With a quick glance at his Rolex, he hopped into his car and burned rubber.

A wife yet! A son—details too trivial to mention. He probably wasn’t even divorced. And through all this mental abuse, the thought kept popping up, like a helium-filled balloon, bright and beautiful, that he was coming back. A half hour later, it also occurred to me that I hadn’t found out where this wife and son lived. Probably in upstate New York, where he taught—if Hume Mason actually had time to teach between books that appeared with monotonous regularity, flooding book racks and driving out more worthwhile books.

In any case, he wasn’t abandoning his opus on Rosalie. This was some new scheme to fool me, but I’d outwit him. I’d beat him to print if I had to work night and day. Working was a good way to drive from my mind the image that haunted me: the perfect man. Physically perfect, that is.

Today should, by rights, have been only a minute or so longer than yesterday. It seemed to have about ninety-eight hours. Nobody could work for ninety-eight hours, so I had plenty of time to fret and fume. The arrival of the postman with a box of books for Mr. O’Malley, bearing the Belton label, didn’t brighten the day much. Simcoe had apparently suggested leaving the box with me. I was surprised Mason had another book ready for release so soon after his Dean Mather story.