Robber Bride - Margaret Atwood [235]
“I guess so,” says Roz. “I just don’t trust myself, is all. Boyce, what is a tenterhook?”
“A wooden frame covered with hooks, on which cloth was stretched for drying,” says Boyce.
“Not a lot of help,” says Roz.
“Though true,” says Boyce.
Roz sets out for the Arnold Garden Hotel. She takes a taxi because she’s too keyed up to drive. She doesn’t even need to ask at the desk, which is clogged with what look to her like travelling salesmen; she just quick-steps through the deplorable lobby, with its tawdry retro leather sofas and Canadian Woman spray-paint-it-yourself tacky flower arrangement circa 1984, and the view of the tatty little patio and City Hall Modern cement fountain visible through the glass doors, this is to garden as prepackaged microwave meals are to food, and straight into the plastic-leather-padded elevator.
All the time she’s rehearsing: Wasn’t one enough? You gonna kill my son, too? Get your claws off my child! She feels like a tigress, defending her young. Or this is what tigresses are rumoured to do. I’ll huff and I’ll puff, she roars inwardly, and I’ll blow your house down!
Except that Zenia was never much of a one for houses. Only for breaking into them.
At the back of her mind is another scenario: what happens when Larry finds out what she’s done? He is, after all, twenty-two. That’s well over the age of consent. If he wants to screw cheerleaders or St. Bernard dogs or aging vamps like Zenia, what business is it, really, of hers? She pictures his glance of patient, exasperated contempt, and flinches.
Knock, knock, knock, she goes on Zenia’s door. Just making a noise recoups her strength. Open up, you pig, you sow, and let me in!
And clickety-clack, here comes somebody. The door opens a crack. It’s on the chain. “Who is it?” says the smoky voice of Zenia.
“It’s me,” says Roz. “It’s Roz. You might as well let me in, because if you don’t I’m just going to stand here and scream.”
Zenia opens the door. She’s dressed to go out, in the same low-cut black dress that Roz remembers from the Toxique. Her face is made up, her hair is loose, waving and coiling and uncoiling itself in restless tendrils around her head. There’s a suitcase open on the bed.
“A suitcase?” says Tony. “I didn’t see any suitcases.”
“Me neither,” says Charis. “Was the room tidy?”
“Fairly tidy,” says Roz. “But this was later in the afternoon. After you were there. Most likely the maid had come.”
“What was in the suitcase?” says Tony. “Was she packing? Maybe she’s planning to leave.”
“It was empty,” says Roz. “I looked.”
“Roz!” says Zenia. “What a surprise! Come on in – you’re looking terrific!”
Roz knows she is not looking terrific: anyway, looking terrific is what people say about women her age who are not actually dead. Zenia, on the other hand, really is looking terrific. Doesn’t she ever age? thinks Roz bitterly. What kind of blood does she drink? Just one wrinkle, just a little one, God; would it be so hard? Tell me again – why do the wicked prosper?
Roz does not beat about the bush. “What do you think you’re up to, having a thing with Larry?” she says. “Don’t you have any, any scruples at all?”
Zenia looks at her. “A thing? What a delicious idea! Did he tell you that?”
“He’s been seen, going into your hotel room. More than once,” says Roz.
Zenia smiles gently. “Seen? Don’t tell me you’ve got that Hungarian following me around again. Roz, why don’t you sit down? Have a drink or something. I never had anything against you personally.” She herself sits demurely down on the flowered sofa, as if there’s nothing at all going on; as if they’re two respectable matrons about to have afternoon tea. “Believe me, Roz. My feelings for Larry are only maternal.”
“What do you mean, maternal?” says Roz. She feels stupid standing up, so she sits in the matching chair. Zenia is hunting for her cigarettes. She finds