“I’m afraid Miss Spencer is tied up at the moment. Would you care to leave—”
Her words cut off abruptly, followed by a muffled pause, as if a hand has been placed over the receiver. A moment later, Goldie’s voice comes over the line. “What is it you want?”
“I’m calling—”
“I know why you’re calling, honey. A little early, though, even for you. I thought yours was more of a lunchtime affair.”
Affair. The word stuns me. The transient nature of it, the impermanence. But then, that’s what this is, isn’t it? What we’re doing? Having an affair? Perhaps not in the completest sense—we’ve both managed to keep our clothes on—but in every way that matters. Slipping away to meet in secret. Lying about where we’ve been. Pretending it’s different from what other people do. Because we’re in love.
Except we’ve never actually said the word. Me, because I’m not allowed to say it. Not to you. And you, because . . . Well, I suppose it’s part of the bargain we’ve made, to tiptoe around the truth. To give a thing a name means missing it when you have to let it go. And I’m not sure I can bear the missing. Or the letting go.
Only now, you seem to be the one letting go.
The scratchy silence over the line reminds me that Goldie is still there, waiting for me to respond. I consider denying it, then realize how pointless it would be. There’s only one way she could know about our lunchtime rendezvous. You’ve told her. Everything, it appears.
I hang up, then head down the back stairs and out through the kitchen door. In the garage, I tell Banks, the man who looks after the cars, that I’m going into town to do some shopping and then meeting friends for lunch. As I say it, I realize how smoothly the lie rolls off my tongue and how good I’ve become at telling them.
I wait nearly two hours across the street from the Review’s offices, watching the entrance, waiting for you to appear. It’s a desperate thing to do, I know. A silly, reckless, impetuous thing. But something happened last night, something you seem to believe was my fault, and I think I’m entitled to at least know the nature of my transgression and whether it might have had anything to do with your abrupt change of address. Did you and Goldie quarrel? Over me? And if so, have you lost your job as well as the guest room?
The possibility that you might already be headed back to England gnaws at me as I watch taxi after taxi pull up to the curb, discharging passengers who aren’t you. And then finally, there you are.
I blow the horn, three short taps, until you turn toward the car. Your face goes blank at first, and then you’re crossing the street with long, determined strides. You say nothing as you approach, just open the passenger door and slide in.
“What are you doing here, Belle?”
“I called . . . They said you weren’t . . . I had to see you.”
“I thought we agreed—”
“I don’t care what we agreed. They said you moved out this morning.”
“Who’s they?”
“Whoever answered the phone. What happened?”
You pull off your hat, rake a hand through your hair. For the first time, I notice how tired you look, as if you haven’t slept or showered. You study me through narrowed eyes. “How long have you been here? Your lips are blue.”
I look away, my throat tight. “I don’t know. A couple hours. We need to talk about last night, Hemi. Please.”
“We can’t sit here. Start the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“My place.”
Regretting Belle
(pgs. 55–65)
5 November 1941
New York, New York
You say nothing as you maneuver your father’s Chrysler through lunch-hour traffic, turning when I tell you to, parking where I tell you to.
I feed the meter, then point to a six-story brick walk-up crouched between its taller neighbors on Thirty-Seventh Street. After a furtive glance in both directions, you follow me into the building, past a bank of metal mailboxes and a scattering of weary chairs and tables. I wonder what you’re thinking as you follow me up the narrow flight of stairs, your hand hovering slightly above the banister, so as not to soil your gloves.
I stop in front of apartment 2-B and fumble for the key, still loose in my pocket. The door groans as I push it open and stand aside. You enter tentatively, wary of the dim and vaguely stale interior. There’s an uncomfortable moment when I flip on the living room lamp and you take in the handful of sparsely furnished rooms. It isn’t bad, but it isn’t much either. Certainly a far cry from your father’s study with its mahogany-paneled walls and sumptuous leather chairs.
There’s a couch covered in some plain, serviceable material; a matching armchair; and a pair of low end tables. The kitchen is at the back, compact, like a ship’s galley, with red-and-white curtains and a table built into the wall. Down a short hall, the bedroom is visible, starkly furnished with a bureau, a small desk, and a double bed with a faded chenille spread. My suitcases sit in the doorway, along with my typewriter case and a handful of battered books.
You run your eyes around the place, then turn and blink at me. “This is . . . yours?”
“As of nine thirty this morning, yes. Goldie and I have been experiencing . . . a little friction, so I thought it was time I strike out on my own. It’s not a palace, but it’s a place to write and sleep, which is all I need.”
I watch as your eyes fill with tears. You try to blink them away, but it’s too late. They spill down your cheeks. I’m startled when you fall against me with a sob.
“I thought you were going home . . . ,” you whisper hoarsely, then tip your head back to look at me. “When I heard you left Goldie’s this morning, I thought you were going back to England.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Last night, when you left . . .” You look away, then drop your eyes to the floor. “Why did you leave Goldie’s?”
I step away then, needing to put distance between us, and find myself wishing I’d taken up smoking. I could do with a distraction just now, a stall tactic, something to do with my hands. I shove them into my pockets instead. “We had words,” I say, clipped, grudging.
“About me?”
“Among other things.”
“She knows about us.”
There’s a hint of accusation in your tone. Deserved, I suppose. “Yes.”
Your face goes hard, your tears forgotten. “How could you? Of all the people on earth, how could you tell her? The things she said to me on the phone . . .”
“I’m sorry. We had it out last night when I got back to her place. And then we picked it up again this morning. She means well—”
“Don’t make excuses for her.”
“She thinks I’ve crossed the line with you,” I reply, a response that’s both honest and not quite the truth. “That I’ve lost my sense of perspective.”
“Crossed whose line—hers?”
“No. Mine. But she isn’t wrong. And I realized it last night. At dinner.”
“What does that mean?”