'Honey, you sure you're up for this?'
Cathy Jordan hesitated in what she was doing, adjusting her silver Zuni earrings in front of the mirror; her favourites, the ones she had bought in Santa Fe.
'God, Frank, I wish you wouldn't do that.'
'What? Show a little concern?'
'Call me honey that way. Makes me feel like something out of Norman Rockwell.'
'Not The ShiningT He came up behind her with arm raised, as if holding a knife, leering his manic Jack Nieholson leer.
'Honey, I'm home!'
'Jesus, Frank.'
What? '
'All that's been going on, that's not so funny.'
Dipping his head towards her shoulder, an oddly tender gesture, he slid both arms around her.
'That guy, huh? The one in the paper. Poor bastard!'
She was looking at his reflection in the dressing table mirror, both their reflections: familiar and strange.
Frank? '
'Umm?'
'Did you read any of the new book?'
'Your new book?'
Uh-huh. '
'I didn't think you'd even shipped it off to the publishers yet.'
'No, but…' 'You're still working on it, right?'
'Fiddling, that's all. The manuscript.'
'You remember one time you caught me reading these pages you'd left lying around? I thought you were going to go crazy.'
Cathy Jordan smiled into the mirror.
'That was a while back. I was more cranky then. Nervous, I guess.'
'What you mean is, back then, you cared what I thought.'
'That's not what I mean at all.' Looking at him, defiance and concern in his eyes, the stance of his body, strength of his arms. So easy to have turned inside those arms.
'Anyway,' Frank said.
'I didn't look at it, not a peek. How come you ask?'
'Oh…' Her voice drifted off and she looked away; how strange desire was, months in which she had felt God! – nothing, at best a mixture of comfort and irritation, and now this.
'It doesn't matter,' she said, and moved her mouth over his.
They kissed until it was difficult to breathe.
'Jeeze,' Frank said, as she released him.
'What's got into you?'
Cathy let her smile spread wide and when she laughed it was down and dirty.
'Recently, not a whole lot.'
He reached for her and she reached for him.
'Well,' Cathy said, eyebrow arched.
'Have you been working out?'
They were midway between the dressing table and the bed when the phone rang.
'Leave it,' Frank said.
'All right.' But she could see the time, winking at her, green-eyed, from the clock radio beside the bed.
'Cathy, come on.'
She reached out a hand and the ringing stopped. 'Hello,' she said, listening a moment before dropping the receiver back down.
'It's Mollie. She's in the foyer, waiting. We have to be there in thirty minutes.'
Frank rolled clumsily round and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed against his temples.
'Don't, sweetheart,' Cathy said, giving his arm a squeeze. Her voice tenderly mocking.
'Don't have a headache.'
'What do you suggest?' he said.
'A shower? Maybe there's time to jerk off? I know, I could jerk off in the shower.'
Already she was on her feet, reaching her coat from the hanger.
'You could come with me to the store, that's what you could do. Protect me from any more militant paint- throwers. Radical fertmies. With this murder on their hands, I doubt the police will have officers to spare.'
Frank looked across at her from the bed, still undecided how grouchy he was going to be.
'Don't be mad,' Cathy said.
'Do this for me. Once it's over, we've got the rest of the afternoon to ourselves. We can come back here, what do you say?'
But Frank knew, they both knew, whatever he replied, the moment was gone.
Cathy hadn't known what to expect, but the city centre on a Saturday lunchtime wasn't it The way people pushed, wall to wall, along the pedestrianised street leading towards the Victoria Centre, all Cathy could think of was one of those paintings by who was it? – Brueghel. A medieval vision of Hell.
The bookshop, where she and Dorothy BirdweU were to do a joint signing, was on the ground floor of the shopping precinct. Signing with Dorothy, needless to say, had not been Cathy's own choice, but it was at the shop's request and, as her publisher had been quick to point out, the shop was capable of shifting a lot of product Cathy presumed she meant books.
Mollie steered Cathy and Dorothy between groups of teenagers wearing high-tops, reversed baseball caps and T-shirts, Frank and Marius, un speaking following close behind. Between River Island and HMV they passed several mothers, dragging squawking children in their wake, fathers striding several paces ahead, the fuss and commotion no concern of theirs. Cathy saw one woman spin a small boy, no more than three, out of the path of a push chair and give him a slap, hard, across the backs of his bare legs.
'There! Now stop scraighting, you mardy little sod, or I'll slap you again.' For a moment, Cathy caught her eye: blonde hair tight like copper wire, cigarette, eyes hard as coal. Pregnant again. No way was she more than twenty, twenty-one. A moment, then she was gone.
'Here we are,' Mollie said cheerfully.
'And look, there's a queue already.'
Cathy's face beamed back at her in full-colour from a poster in the window. Inside the shop, it was reproduced many times: smaller posters on the walls, dump bins at the ends of aisles, a whole shelf of paperbacks and hardcovers, book back to front, displaying the same image. How did she look to all these people, Cathy wondered? Sunny, smug, self-satisfied. American. But, in truth, most of the people pushing round her seemed quite oblivious, not to care.
In contrast, the publicity for Dorothy Birdwell, who stood talking now to Marius, was noticeably less prominent, her books less visible.
'Cathy Jordan?' She shook hands with a surprisingly young woman in a light grey suit with a faint stripe.
'It's a pleasure to welcome you.
We've got you set up over there. ' Cathy shook her hand and she turned aside to Dorothy.
'Miss Birdwell, how are you? If you'll excuse me, I'll be with you in just a moment.'
Leaving Dorothy and Marius stranded, she led Cathy past the line of fans towards a table piled high with yet more copies of her books; those waiting to speak to Dorothy Birdwell were far fewer and mostly older.
'Is that her?' one woman said of Cathy as she passed.
'That's never her.'
'Bet you it is.'
'Some of those photos don't do her any favours, do they?'
