Last Night - James Salter [26]
— They got married.
— That isn’t the point.
He was beginning to stutter.
— What is the point?
— The point is there’s a superior way of living we should be intelligent enough to understand.
— Which means you having some other woman?
— You’re making this caustic. Don’t, please. It’s beneath us just to play roles. We’re above that. You know that.
— All I know is that you’re a cheat.
— I’m not a cheat.
— Daddy’s going to kill you.
He couldn’t find the words. Whatever he thought of was torn apart by her single-mindedness. But it would never come to this.
On the other hand, Pamela had a life of her own; that was the only flaw. She went out at night, there were parties. Some Tunisians from the delegation were very nice.
— Is that right? he said.
She’d gone to a party at the Four Seasons, she told him, and walked to work the next morning with a thousand dollars in her shoe, although she didn’t say that. One of the Tunisians was particularly nice.
— They like to have fun, she said.
— You’re turning into a playgirl, Brian said, a little sourly. How do I know you’re not playing around with this guy?
— You’d know it.
— Maybe I would. Would you tell me? The truth? What’s his name?
— Tahar.
— I wish you wouldn’t.
— I’m not, she said.
In June, Sally and the children went to the country for the summer. For most of the week, Brian was in the city by himself.
— How was I lucky enough to meet you? he said.
They were having dinner amid the liveliness of the crowd, the intimacy within it, the voices all around. He had seen most of them. She was by far the prize of the room.
— We’re going to be friends for a long time, she promised.
Summer mornings with their first, soft light. Amorous mornings, the red numbers flicking silently on the clock, the first sunlight in the trees. Her stunning naked back. The most sacred hours, he realized, of his life.
Dressing one morning, she asked,
— Whose are these?
In a folded packet on the night table had been a pair of shining earrings.
— Are they your wife’s?
She was trying one on, fastening it to her ear. She turned her head one way and the other, looking at herself in the mirror.
— What are they, silver?
— They’re platinum. Better than silver.
— They’re your wife’s.
— They were being repaired. I had to pick them up.
It was hard not to admire her, her bare neck, her aplomb.
— Can I borrow them? she asked.
— I can’t. She knows I was supposed to pick them up.
— Just say they weren’t ready.
— Darling . . .
— I’ll give them back. Is that what you’re afraid of? I’d just like to wear them once, something that’s hers but at the moment mine.
— That’s very Bette Davis.
— Who?
— Just be careful and don’t lose them, he managed to say.
That was a Tuesday. Two nights later a terrible event occurred. It was at a reception given by a group dedicated to the Impressionists; Pascale was a supporter but was away that evening and couldn’t attend. Sally had insisted that Brian go, and in the crowd coming up the stairway he had seen, with a stab of jealousy, more fierce because it was a complete surprise, Pamela. He began to push his way forward to see who she might be with.
— Hey, where are you going in such a hurry?
It was Del, his brother-in-law.
— Where have you been hiding?
— Hiding?
— We haven’t seen you for weeks.
Brian liked him, but not at this moment.
— Why don’t you come to dinner with us tonight, afterward?
— I can’t, Brian said unthinkingly.
— Come on, we’re going to Elio’s, Del insisted. Look at all these women. Where do they come from? They weren’t around when I was single.
Brian hardly heard him. Past his brother-in-law, near the windows not fifteen feet away, he could see Pamela talking to Michael Brule, not just exchanging a greeting but in some sort of conversation. She was wearing a pale