“Because I have this little problem, you see, that you obviously don’t share. I have a little problem getting attached to the men I sleep with. So. There it is. Not quite as daring as you thought, am I?”
He tried to take my hand. I snatched it away. We bumped on down Fifth Avenue. I thought about what Mums had said, taking me aside when I went to her bedroom to pick up my coat. Don’t hate me. I asked around a bit. It turns out Uncle Leo’s younger brother knew him at Princeton. He was at the top of his class, Vivian. And dear old Oscar on the hospital board says he’s the most promising young surgeon they’ve got, he’s just naturally gifted, and so good with the children. He’s perfect, honey. Perfect. I’d thought to myself, she must have it bad, he must have really bamboozled her, if she didn’t care about his family and his scholarship and his obscure San Francisco roots. Did she know about the gambling father yet?
“Vivian,” Doctor Paul said, over Mums’s voice in my head, “listen for a minute. Do you know what happened the other day? Margaux’s father came to the hospital.”
“You don’t say. S. Barnard Lightfoot III himself?” I whistled sloppily.
“Himself. He sat down and offered me a million dollars to marry Margaux.”
“Oh, for the love of Pete.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“A million dollars? To marry Gogo?”
But even as I said the words, I felt that whoosh in my chest, that sudden vacuum of vital strength that meant I did believe him, I knew this was exactly the kind of thing Lightfoot would do, arrogant and big-balled and not to be denied. Not to be outbid by a third party, in any currency.
“You don’t have to believe me, I suppose. It shocked the hell out of me, that’s for certain. That doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
Possibly I would vomit now. I stared at the cab ceiling and tried to breathe slowly.
“A million fat ones. That’s a lot of bread, young stud. You must have impressed him.”
“Half on our engagement, half on our wedding day, he said. Our own apartment on Park when we had our first child.”
“Classic six?”
“Seven.”
“Not playing around, is he? When’s the wedding?”
“What the hell does that mean? I told him no.”
“But you must have been tempted. A million dollars.” I lifted my hand and rubbed together my thumb and forefinger.
“Vivian. Stop it.”
“So why are you telling me about it?”
“To show you that I’m sincere.”
“All you’re showing me, Salisbury, is that you’re willing to make yourself intimate with a pretty girl and break her heart afterward. That you’ll do anything, you’ll turn down a million dollars to avoid making good on what you did to Gogo.”
“For the last time, I didn’t sleep with her.”
I turned to him and shouted, “For the last time, it doesn’t matter! It’s how she feels!”
“What are you saying, Vivian? What do you want? Just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”
What do I want. A simple question.
I fingered my pocketbook, considered the envelopes tucked inside. “Funny little coincidence. As it happens, I had a conference with S. Barnard Lightfoot myself on Tuesday morning. He as good as told me that if I backed off with you, he’d give me carte blanche at the Metropolitan for my story on Violet. He’d make my career.”
“What did you say?”
“What do you think I said? I said yes.”
Somehow, we’d reached my apartment building. Doctor Paul sprang out, opened my door, and handed me out. He reached in his pocket and shoved a couple of dollar bills through the passenger window.
“You’re not coming in,” I said.
“You’re not going in alone, the state you’re in.”
I knew right away I wasn’t going to win this battle. I let him fish my keys out of my pocketbook. “What’s with all the envelopes?” he asked.
“Violet’s letters to my aunt.”
“But that’s tremendous! Why didn’t you tell me?”
I didn’t answer. I swept past him and climbed the stairs. I won’t say I didn’t appreciate the steadying hand he put to the small of my back. I was stumbling a little, not at my best. When we reached my apartment, I had to run to the bathroom. He was still there when I came out, tall and imposing in his overcoat. “Don’t you have a hospital to inhabit somewhere?” I asked.
“Not for an hour or so.”
“Just my luck.”
He walked to the kitchen, found a miraculous tumbler in a cabinet, and poured a glass of water from the tap. “Here. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
I drank obediently.
He said softly, “You’re so absolute, Vivian. So ardent, inside that crisp shell of yours. You come on like Ava Gardner . . . no, that’s not it. Like Hepburn, Katharine Hepburn, like there’s nothing you wouldn’t dare. But in the end, when the chips are down, when everyone pairs off at midnight, you shy away. You can’t stand the nakedness, can you?”
“I can stand it, all right. I’m just particular. Nothing wrong with that.”