There are two classic responses for the reluctant witness: I don’t know and I don’t remember. Vivian had chosen the second. No one was likely to suffer such a sudden and extensive loss of memory as she claimed without a blow on the head or a great emotional shock or a great deal of alcohol.
There had been no bruise on her temple at luncheon. That wound had surely been acquired at the same time as the gash on the body of the car. Both must have occurred after she left the house, yet she had just claimed she could not remember leaving the house. She had had only one martini before luncheon. So far as Tash could recall, nothing had happened at luncheon likely to induce emotional shock in her.
This was what Washington called a cover-up. It left Tash wondering more than ever what could lie underneath.
“I asked to see you because I wanted to explain about that letter,” said Vivian. “You don’t have to worry about its being stolen. It wasn’t important. Just a letter to one of those mail order houses that advertise gadgets. This was a miniature watering pot, a silly hand-painted thing that would add a little gaiety to dull jobs like watering indoor plants. I should have told you that before.”
This time she achieved a ghost of her old smile.
Tash tried to summon an answering smile. “Don’t worry, please. It doesn’t matter.”
Vivian looked about for an ashtray and found one under a fold of the frilly counterpane. She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another.
“Wouldn’t it be safer to keep the ashtray on the bedside table?” suggested Tash.
“I suppose so, but that’s so far to reach in a bed as wide as this. I haven’t the energy . . .”
Downstairs in Tash’s office, Hilary lit a cigarette of her own. “Well?”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Nobody believes it.”
“What did happen?”
“I have no way of knowing.”
“What do you think?”
“I can’t think at this point. I can only guess. Could it be an alcoholic blackout?”
“It’s hard to believe that anyone as much in the public eye as Vivian Playfair could be a secret drinker without being detected long ago.”
“There’s more than one kind of alcoholism,” returned Hilary. “It can be periodic. That’s the kind that’s easiest to conceal for any length of time. Some of them can go for weeks or months without alcohol and then, suddenly, they have to spend a few days drinking themselves blind. And it can happen to those who have everything to live for, at least, apparently.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. It happened to my husband.”
It was the first glimpse that Tash had had into the long past that must have shaped Hilary’s present. How differently we would feel about people if they could carry visible pasts around with them . . .
“Every few months he used to drink himself into a blackout,” said Hilary. “And he always insisted on driving when he was blacked out. That’s what killed him. When I saw the gash on Vivian’s car last night, and the bruise on her forehead, I remembered one night when he came home with a crushed fender and a broken head. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what he had hit or how he had pulled out of it or where he had been.”
“That would explain her periodic absences,” said Tash. “Going off some place to drink by herself. She couldn’t do that here. And it might explain those periodic changes in her appearance. Not illness, just a colossal hangover. But what about that letter she gave me to mail?”
“Writing to someone who supplies her with liquor and a place to drink it in privacy, trying to hide the fact from Jeremy.”
“You think he knows now?”
“He must suspect something by this time.”
“How could she be such a fool?”
Hilary lit another cigarette. “Who knows? The surface of life gives little indication of what lies underneath until something like this happens. I used to think I had made my husband happy. Obviously, I hadn’t. I’ve always thought Jeremy had made Vivian happy, but perhaps he hasn’t.”
“There are cures, aren’t there?”
“Oh, yes. Sometimes they work, and sometimes they don’t. My husband tried everything: psychoanalysis, hypnosis, group therapy, biochemical therapy, antabuse. Everything. Nothing worked.”
“If she continues this way, she’ll destroy him.” Hilary nodded.
“If it comes out—as it almost certainly will in an election campaign—people may feel sorry for Jeremy, but they won’t vote for him. Not even if he divorced her.”
“He won’t divorce her,” said Tash.
“Why not?”
“He is not the kind of man who would desert a wife in trouble when she needs him most.”
“I wonder if voters would feel the way you do?”
“Women voters would.”
“Then God help Jerry! If this comes out, he’s locked into disaster.”
“What do you mean?”
“If he goes on living with her, the taint will rub off on him. Some men will think he’s weak, others will wonder if he drove her to it. But if he divorces her, women like you will say he deserted a wife in trouble in order to save his career. Politically, he’s damned if he leaves her, and damned if he doesn’t.”
“We’re just guessing,” said Tash. “This may not be the truth at all.
“Want to bet? She’s going into a private nursing home day after tomorrow. For a checkup. At least that’s what the press release will say. Tash, I wouldn’t blame you if you resigned now. There’s not going to be any future in politics for anyone who worked for Jeremy Playfair.”
“I’m not in politics.”
Hilary’s eyes grew pensive. “So, like the rest of us, you’ve fallen for the Playfair mana.”
“Bunk!” Tash spoke as
