The Prize

now it would be easier, more guiltless, to divorce her, and had gone on to enjoy his assignation with Gisele Jordan, wherever that was taking place.

Grieved that Craig had likely been right, that her adultery had finally filled her husband with disgust rather than jealousy, Denise walked restlessly to the closet, located a fresh packet of cigarettes in her coat pocket, tore it open, and with pained sadness at the infinity of loneliness that confronted her, she lit a cigarette.

It was then that the telephone rang.

Her heart prayed: Claude.

She ran to the telephone, catching it before the third ring, and spoke into the mouthpiece with wariness.

‘Allo?’

‘Denise?’ The high-strung voice was male, but it was not Claude’s voice. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Qui est la-who is there?’

‘Oscar-Oscar Lindblom.’

She sighed. Then he was alive. He would know her fate. ‘How are you, my dear? Of course, I am alone.’

‘Your husband-your husband has found out about us!’

‘I know-I know. He found out by accident. Through the waiter who served us last night.’

‘He came to the laboratory to kill me.’

‘Apparently he did not succeed,’ said Denise dryly. ‘Well-what did he do to you?’

‘Nothing. I was not there.’

Denise’s heart sank. He was not there. The third act had been a dud. ‘How do you know he went after you?’

‘He found Hammarlund in the laboratory. He waited for me for about an hour and a half, and then he had to leave. He had a date.’ Denise’s heart sank further. A date? Gisele. And for herself? Alimony.

Lindblom’s voice continued tinnily through the receiver. ‘I missed your husband by ten minutes. Hammarlund was pleased as punch. He said that he and Dr. Marceau had the longest talk-’

‘About us?’

‘No-no-about synthetic food.’

‘Synthetic food?’ Denise exploded. ‘That-that-that worm! ’

‘What-what did you say?’

‘Nothing. Oscar, listen.’ She had lost, she knew, but she would not retreat without inflicting the greatest casualties possible upon the foe. The old plot had failed, but a fresh one had formed. ‘Tell me, where are you now?’

‘About a mile from you. I had to return to-’

‘Can you come right over?’

‘But your husband-’

‘He’ll be out all afternoon-he will not be back until after dinner.’

‘Denise, please, it is dangerous. He might-’

‘Oscar, I know where he is, and he will not be back. I am quite alone.’

‘But, Denise-as much as I want to see you-in fact, I was up all last night thinking about us-’

‘I was too, darling.’

‘-it could be terrible, if he came on us. Hammarlund warned me.’

‘Warned you? Of what?’

‘About seeing you again. Just as your husband was leaving, he told Hammarlund to tell me that he would break my neck if he ever found me with you again.’

Denise’s sunken heart lifted and soared. ‘He said that?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Bravado, Oscar, mere bravado. He would not touch a flea. He knows that he is impotent, and that I cannot bear it-and he knows that I love you. I told him so.’

‘You told him?’

‘Why not? It is true.’

‘Oh, Denise-’

‘Darling, I am desolate without you. If I cannot have you here now-’

‘Denise-Denise-’ His voice broke off, and then was heard again. ‘Are you absolutely positive that he will not be back?’

‘I swear to it on the Bible. You are safe, and so am I. Come at once. I must know everything that transpired at the laboratory. And I want you-do you hear? I want you.’

She could hear the choking emotion of Lindblom’s voice. ‘I-I-I will be right there.’

The moment that she returned the receiver to the cradle, she regretted the invitation. She had thought that last night would be the last of Lindblom’s pitiful acrobatics. But on instinct, when she understood that all was lost, she had wanted to leave Claude with a picture that would haunt him the rest of his days. She had invited Lindblom with the intention of keeping him in the room, delaying him, and then going to bed with him at the time Claude would be returning. She did not consider what might happen after that. She considered only the humiliation to which he would be subjected. But now, that necessity seemed foolish, and worse, dangerous, especially if she still had the chance to save their marriage. For now, there was one ray of hope. Claude had, after all, displayed a flare-up of husbandly possessiveness in his last words to Hammarlund. This parting threat might have meant one of two things-a defence of pride or honest jealousy.

Why had she so blindly insisted on that child’s coming to her room again, enticed him with the lure of one more fornication? It was some inexplicable intuition and nothing else, a yearning to know, firsthand, at length, what had taken place between Claude and Hammarlund. She could not believe that Claude, in such a wrath, could have coolly sat for an hour and a half and discussed synthetic food. There must have been more, and she would find out. She must trust her feelings and not her sensibility. She would learn if Claude had given any indication of a future for them. If he had not-well, the rest was clear-Gisele the victor.

She trudged slowly to the bathroom, her slippers plopping against her heels. As to her promise to perform sexual intercourse with Lindblom, she would find a way out of that. She would be attractive, she would permit him to kiss her, even pet her, but beyond such innocence, she would have to say no. She would extract the information that she suspected he possessed, and bid him good-bye. With this last visit, his usefulness would come to an end.

In the bathroom, she discarded her neglige, and then, after giving the matter some thought, she decided on limited provocation. She unclasped her brassiere, pulled it off, and allowed her full breasts to drop unhampered. With care, she washed and dried, improved her face bit by bit from eyebrow pencil and eye-shadow to powder and lipstick. Then she doused herself with Arpege, behind the ears and neck, across her shoulders and collarbone, under her armpits, between her breasts and beneath them.

She had just pulled on her neglige, and was drawing it about the pink nylon pants, when she heard the door buzzer. Hastily, she secured the neglige, and went, in a trot, to the door.

The minute that Lindblom came into the room, hair dishevelled and eyes too bright, and she closed the door and realized that he was staring at the movement of her breasts, she knew that she might not have everything her way.

‘Denise-’ he panted, and clutched at her, holding her so tightly to him that she could hardly breathe, pressing her bosom deep into his chest and running his hand down the arch of her back and across the curve of her buttocks.

In their previous two assignations, he had shown none of this impulsive aggressiveness, and now she tried to fathom it. Either she had aroused him to this pitch with her telephonic promise, or the combination of her attire and the dangers inherent in his visit had stimulated him beyond reason. Whatever lay behind his excitement, there was going to be a bout.

‘Denise,’ he was whispering, ‘I could not come to you fast enough. I must have you at once.’

She tried to push him away. ‘Oscar, what has got into you? Not so fast-’

‘I must-I must-immediately. You do not know how it is!’