The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [89]
“You can hardly stand,” he said.
“I’d like to take the bath here. I don’t want to be alone in my room. After the bath, I’ll be fine.”
She saw that he doubted she would be fine.
She ran the water hot and emptied a bottle of shower gel into the tub that made a froth of suds. She was startled, when she undressed, to see just how filthy her clothes were, to see that a part of the hem of her skirt had come undone. She stood naked in the center of the room. She made dirty footprints on the white tiles. On a glass shelf were towels and a pretty basket with toiletries.
She put a foot into the water and winced, then stepped in. Slowly, she sank into the tub.
She washed her hair and face using the soapy water, too tired to get the shampoo. She pulled a towel off a rack, rolled it, and laid it on the lip of the tub. She leaned back, resting her neck on the towel.
A leather toilet kit was perched precariously on the small porcelain sink. The blazer with the gold buttons hung on the hook at the back of the door. Beyond the door, she could hear a knocking, a door opening, a brief conversation, a pause, and then a door shutting again. Room service, she thought. She wished she’d ordered a cup of tea. A cup of tea would have been perfect.
The casement window had been opened a crack, and she could hear street sounds below, traffic noise, a distant shout. Even at one o’clock in the morning.
She felt drowsy and closed her eyes. Despite the buoyancy of the water, it would be an effort to move her body, to climb out of the tub. She willed herself to empty her mind, to think of hot water and soap and nothing else.
When the door opened, she did not move, made no effort to cover herself, though the bubbles had thinned some and the tops of her breasts might have been exposed.
Her knees rose from the suds like volcanic islands. Her toes toyed with the chain of the plug.
He’d ordered tea. A glass of brandy.
He laid the cup and the glass on the edge of the tub. He stood back and leaned against the sink, put his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He crossed his legs at the ankles. She knew that he was looking at her body.
“I’d mix them together if I were you,” he said.
She sat up to do as he had suggested.
“I’ll leave you alone,” he said.
“Don’t go.”
Behind him, the mirror over the sink was opaque with steam. Near the window, the outside air mixing with the heat created wisps of cloud. She poured the brandy into the tea, stirred the two together, and took a long swallow. Immediately, she felt the heat at the center of her body. The medicinal properties of brandy were amazing, she thought.
She held the teacup with soapy fingers.
His jaw moved. He might have sighed. He took a hand out of a pocket and rubbed the beads of moisture on the lip of the sink with his thumb.
“I’ll need a robe,” she said.
In the end, she told him everything. In the dark, lying on his bed, she told him every word she could remember of the meeting in the white town house. He listened without saying much, murmuring here and there, once or twice asking a question. She wore the terrycloth hotel robe, and he stayed dressed. He trailed his fingers up and down her arm as she spoke. When they grew chilly, he pulled a comforter over them. She burrowed her head into the space between his chest and his arm. In the dark, she felt the unfamiliar warmth of his body, heard his breathing next to her. She thought there might be something else that she wanted to say, but before she could form the words, she drifted off to a dreamless sleep.
The next morning, she sat on the edge of the bed in the white robe, hemming her skirt with a sewing kit she’d found in the basket of toiletries. Robert had been on the telephone, talking with the airline, changing plane tickets, but now he was polishing her shoes. An oblong of sunlight lit the room from behind the white net curtain. She thought she had probably not moved