"Really?" Margaret was shocked, but also excited. "Really? Don't you feel, well, sort of odd and, don't take this the wrong way, you know what I mean, sort of old, rusty I guess would be a better description, at least it would be for me. Really? What's he like? Why are you doing this?"
"He's very shrewd, very understanding, and he talks. The other one never said a word. All those hours, all those years, and he just wouldn't speak to me. I felt crazier than when I took up with him. I couldn't take it anymore. What a relief to be rid of him."
"You left him?"
Till nodded and smiled.
Margaret put her hands in her pockets and thought this over. Till's smarmy husband Art was gone! "I never much liked Art," Margaret said.
"Well, we're writers."
"Yes," Margaret said. "That's true." What is she talking about? Margaret thought. Why do I never follow the thread of even the simplest conversation? What does writing have to do with her unctuous husband?
"Art has become a commodity, anyway," Till said.
"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about. God, you're cold."
"I'm okay. We'll be inside soon."
"No, no. I meant ruthless. The way you talk about Art."
"Art," she said contemptuously. "Who cares about that?"
"Well, you used to care about Art."
"Well, sometimes we used to go to galleries, I guess. But not anymore."
"I should say not."
"Art holds no charms for you, Margaret. That's obvious."
"Well, he's so phenomenally vain. I know marriage is a compromise, but I've never understood how you could stand him day to day."
"Art? Art Turner?"
"I guess in the beginning he seemed interesting."
"I guess so," Till said in a tight, angry voice.
Margaret was very uncomfortable. The wind blew cold and Till's gaze was colder still, but in spite of all of that arctic atmosphere, Margaret began to blush and perspire. "I, I just meant you would probably be better off without him, that's all."
"That's all? Well, I think actually that's more than enough. You know, Margaret, I share your distaste for the ridiculous contemporary art market, but I fail to see what your opinion of my husband (such a well-kept secret for so long, now unaccountably shared with me), what your opinion, unfair and unkind, what your opinion of my husband, whom I rather like, the man who made your reputation, Margaret, what your thankless opinion of him has to do with it."
Margaret stared at her. "But the new guy you're seeing—"
"I fail to see what connection my new psychiatrist has with this, my new psychiatrist with whom I have an appointment in forty-five minutes, thank God, so that I can discuss the behavior of hostile, disloyal friends..." As she spoke, she turned from the restaurant and began walking away, her voice whipping back toward Margaret borne on the icy wind together with a coffee-stained paper napkin. "Does friendship mean nothing at all? This is the unkindest cut of all, at least one of them..."
Margaret stood in the cold for a while, no longer interested in lunch at You Are Hungry, but reluctant, nevertheless, to give up her place in line.
Lily did like Trollope, as it turned out. Rachmaninoff, Trollope, and Margaret, too. Whether that meant that Margaret was second-rate, Margaret was not sure, but she would be happy to consort with Rachmaninoff and Trollope any old day, and with Lily, too, which she did more and more frequently.
For Lily began showing up regularly at the Nathan-Ehrenwerth establishment, stretching out on the couch as if it were a grassy hill and she a pink-cheeked country lass. Margaret would look at her and wonder how she managed to look so odd, in her absurd outfits, and yet so natural, so fitting. For Lily, just sitting was a kind of caress. Or was it that the chair or the couch seemed to caress her? The sofa's cushions appeared softer, as soft as flesh. The chair's slender, rounded wooden arms held her in a delicate embrace.
Margaret welcomed Lily's attentions. It was gratifying to be visited, to be telephoned so frequently, to be so openly enjoyed, so wanted, particularly since Till was no longer speaking to her. When Lily broke into her whispery jargon, Margaret would momentarily ask herself if she hadn't better forget the whole thing, but even that began to seem almost charming to her, the way a lover's crooked nose becomes first less noticeable, then somehow indispensable, then positively beautiful.
"You and Lily are fast friends," Edward said one day.
"Fast? Well, anyway, she has certainly grown on me. Do you like her, Edward?"
Edward of course liked her. He liked everyone, for one reason or another. Margaret knew that. What she meant was, What reason? What have you seen, what tawdry trinket of character, ignored by the rest of us, have you stooped to pick up, have you polished and discovered to be rich, luminous gold?
"Lily is very sincere," he said slowly. "Deeply sincere."
"Lily? Our Lily?"