Suddenly the door to Charles’s office flies open. Anne gasps.
“Jesus, Charles, you scared me.”
Charles storms through the kitchen. Anne puts down the papaya and counts to fifteen. Then she heads toward the back of the apartment. In spite of everything, she’s excited by Charles-what woman wouldn’t be?
She stands in the bathroom doorway watching as he splashes cold water on his face over and over again.
“I take it your work didn’t go well this morning?”
“No need to ‘take it.’ Why don’t you just ask me?”
Uh-oh, impossible mood.
Anne crosses the bedroom, past the bank of windows that look out over the park, walks into her closet, and grabs two dresses, two short (but not too short), sexy dresses-what’s the point of chiseling down her thighs if she doesn’t show them off-one deep red, one this marvelous metallic shade of burnt gold.
“Charles, which one should I wear tonight? I want to look like a trophy wife.”
That gets a smile out of him. He looks from the dresses to her body.
“The gold.”
He’s right, of course-the dress’s tawny gleam sets off her red hair and pale, freckle-splashed skin to high advantage. Anne hooks the dress on the back of the door. She quietly slips into her slacks and blouse. Charles sits brooding on the edge of the mahogany sleigh bed.
Anne sits beside him and rubs his neck.
“You know how much I believe in you, darling. We’ll get through all this.”
He turns to her, looking so vulnerable, so vulnerable and so gorgeous, with that full mouth, those hazel eyes cradled in their comforting web of wrinkles, that tousled chestnut hair, that jaw covered with stubble, bristly stubble that brings an exciting hint of pain when it moves across her flesh.
“Oh, Anne, I didn’t marry an optimist for nothing.”
And he kisses her, lightly, on the lips. Anne knows that in many ways she’s stronger than Charles. He’s an artist-certain critics have even called him a genius-prey to unspeakable demons, crippling doubts. His work is so important. Sometimes, late at night when she can’t sleep, Anne will tiptoe into the library, pick up one of his books, and reread a favorite passage. What compelling characters he creates, how beautifully he puts words together, capturing all the pain and frailty and radiance of life. And this man loves her. She wants so much to help him right now, for his sake, of course, but also, she admits to herself, to assuage her guilt over her success-and her transgression.
“Thanks for putting up with me, tea biscuit,” he whispers in her ear.
“Hey, no problem.”
“You be the best.”
“I had a silly idea,” Anne says tentatively.
“We should take off for Bangkok?”
“I wish we could. If you hate the idea just say so, but do you think maybe it would help if you got your office organized? Just a little.”
He refuses to let the housekeeper enter the rooms where he works, the former maids’ quarters down that long hallway off the kitchen. Anne, organized to a fault, is secretly appalled by the unanswered mail, unreturned phone calls, unfiled papers. She’s sure a clean sweep would help Charles stay focused on the future, on his new work.
“I relent. Magdalena can haul in the Dirt Devil and work her magic.”
“But what about cleaning out some of the deadwood? I had this fantastic temp last week while Trent was on vacation. Completely unobtrusive. Why don’t I call the agency and have them send her over? If you don’t like having her around, we’ll send her right back.”
Charles walks into the bathroom and turns on the sauna. Anne follows.
“Will you at least consider it?” she asks.
“I will.”
“HG-TV is coming up to the office this afternoon to shoot a piece on Home, so I won’t see you till the party. What time is your Book Talk taping?”
“They’re sending a car at four-thirty,” Charles says, taking off his shirt and slipping out of his pants. There he is in those striped boxers, with that boxer build-a boxer gone slightly, sexily to seed.
“Nina’s expecting a mob scene,” Anne says, her gaze running down his body.
“Free food’ll do it every time.” Charles steps out of his shorts. Anne catches her breath. She looks at the two of them in the mirror. Their eyes meet. He looks wounded, wary. She wants him so badly but is afraid of being rebuffed, of adding to the distance between them. She crosses to him and kisses him, putting a hand on his chest. He accepts her kiss passively.
“I’ll see you this evening,” she says. “And do think about the girl. I think she might be a help.”
4
“Welcome to Book Talk. I’m Derek Wollman, and my guests today are Charles Davis and Vera Knee.”
The camera pans to Charles and Vera. Charles looks at the lens-gravely, his eyes in a slight squint: his literary lion look. Vera-barely legal, Kabuki white skin, dark eyes, and storm clouds of black hair, wearing a halter top, a turquoise fucking halter top-giggles and waves disarmingly, jangling sixteen bracelets.
“Charles Davis hardly needs an introduction. His first book, Life and Liberty, made him an overnight literary sensation at the age of twenty-four. Universally considered the definitive novel about the Vietnam War, it has been translated into twenty-two languages and is taught in virtually every college in America. Mr. Davis has just published his sixth novel, Capitol Offense.”
Derek holds up a copy of the 437-page book.
“Set in Washington’s corridors of power, it focuses on a married senator who has an affair with an idealistic young congress-woman. Welcome to Book Talk, Charles.”
“It’s nice to be back, Derek.”
“Also joining us is one of America’s hottest young writers, Vera Knee. Vera’s first novel, Honey on the Moon, a daring and hilarious look at life among Manhattan trendsetters, is delighting critics and readers alike.”
Derek holds up Honey on the Moon, all 161 (small format) pages.
“Welcome to Book Talk, Vera.”
“Hi.”
She waves those damn jangling bracelets again.
“First of all, Charles, I want to tell you how much I enjoyed Capitol Offense. It’s really about the abuse of power, isn’t it? The senator’s manipulation of the congresswoman is almost painful to read.”
“Well, you know, Derek, power is the great aphrodisiac,” Charles says. He rather likes these TV things. He tapes them secretly and watches them in the afternoon, a guilty pleasure.
“ Life and Liberty has become a modern classic. Some critics have complained that your work since has grown increasingly commercial.”
Charles smiles. “You’d never know it from my royalty statements.”
“Have you felt a certain pressure in your subsequent works to live up to that early promise?”
Asshole. “Obviously that kind of early success is a mixed blessing. But I think each of my books stands on its own.”
“Yes, but haven’t they all been compared to Life and Liberty?”
“I thought I was here to talk about Capitol Offense.”
“I just thought you might like to enlighten Ms. Knee on the pitfalls of overnight fame.”
Charles looks at Vera Knee. She is pretty adorable.
“Sock away the dough,” he says.
“I read Life and Liberty at Bennington. It’s very powerful.” She pouts her lips at him.
“And how are you handling the success of Honey on the Moon? ” Derek, charmed, asks.
