“Well, I don’t have an account like that,” she repeated.
“When I went to Zimmerman’s office the other
night, I cleaned out all his files pertaining to you.
One of the things I found was a bank book from the
Cayman Islands.”
“In my name? Oh, no, you just explained there
was no name.” Patsy pushed a stray piece of hair off
her forehead. “Well, then, the bankbook must have
been Fred’s.”
“Yes,” Michael said in that same expressionless
tone. “That’s what I figured.” He stopped at a light
and turned to find her regarding him worriedly.
He smiled. “I don’t want to drive home in this traf
fic, and I owe you a dinner. Is there a restaurant
where we can go dressed like this?”
Patsy’s brow smoothed out. “Of course. Luigi’s.
The best Italian food in New York.”
“Luigi’s. How original.”
“That’s really the owner’s name,” Patsy said
serenely. “And wait until you taste his cooking.”
Luigi was always thrilled to see Patsy, and he put
forth his best efforts in her behalf. It was almost
nine when she and Michael left the restaurant, and
they had done a lot of filling in of those seven years
during which they hadn’t seen each other.
They walked slowly along the sidewalk toward
her apartment, still talking easily.
“Come up for a nightcap?” she offered as they
reached the car, which her doorman had parked in
front of her building for them.
Every other man Patsy knew would have jumped
at the invitation; Michael merely shook his head.
“Thanks, but I’d better be getting home. I’ll have to work twice as hard tomorrow for taking the after
noon off today.”
“I suppose you will,” Patsy said a little forlornly.
They had stopped next to his car, and Michael
reached up and tilted her face toward the glow of a
streetlamp. She looked at him, acutely aware of his
strong, slender fingers lying so lightly on the curve
of her jaw.
“I have theater tickets for tomorrow night,” he
said softly, “and, like you, I recently broke up with the person I’ve been going with.” His eyes were half-hidden by his lashes. “Would you like to go?”
“Yes,” Patsy answered instantly.
She could see him clearly in the light, but she
could not read the expression in his narrowed
green-gold eyes. A faint smile touched his mouth.
“They’re for
The Real Thing”
he said.
“Great. I haven’t seen it yet.”
The pressure of his fingers on her jaw increased
infinitesimally. He bent his head and kissed her,
casually and gently. “I’ll pick you up at seven-
fifteen,” he said, and turning away, unlocked his
car door.
The doorman of her building, who had been an
interested witness to the scene, moved forward,
and Patsy turned to him. “Good evening, Howard,”
she said. “Thanks for parking the car for us. How
ever do you always manage to find a spot right in
front of the building?”
Patsy had her delayed lunch with the movie agent
on Friday and then did some shopping. At Saks she
bought a
lovely spring-green silk dress by Bill Blass
and a new pair of evening sandals with heels lower
than those she usually wore. She went home,
showered, had a light supper, and put on the new
dress. She brushed her hair away from her face and
high up on the back of her head, with just a few
ringlets falling artistically along the white slender-
ness of her neck. When she had finished, she sur
veyed herself in the mirror. The slim bodice and
waist of the dress fit her perfectly and the full, soft
skirt fell gracefully to just below her knees. Patsy
thought with satisfaction of the luck that had made
her a perfect size eight and went into the living
room to wait for Michael.
He was on time and they decided to leave his car
with Howard and take a cab to the theater.
Michael’s tickets were for the third row in the mez
zanine.
Patsy draped her lightweight coat around the
back of her seat and sat down, calmly ignoring the
stares she was provoking from all sides.
“Sorry it’s not the orchestra,” Michael murmured
into her ear.
“Don’t be smug,” she returned imperturbably,
and he gave her a quick sideways grin. He was wearing the same light-gray suit she had seen on
him the other day, and she thought he looked
extremely handsome.
The play was wonderful, both funny and
thoughtful, and the acting was superb. They
decided to walk to Sardi’s for an after-theater drink
and snack, and as they strolled down Shubert Alley,
Michael commented on the quality of the perform
ance.
“I know,” Patsy returned. “Seeing Jeremy Irons
and Glenn Close like that only confirms my deter
mination to stay a million miles away from the mov
ies.”
“Have you had offers?” Michael asked curiously.
“Not exactly, but I’ve had plenty of agents who
swore they could find me a role and could launch
me on a whole new career. I had lunch with one this
afternoon, in fact. He couldn’t believe I wasn’t
interested.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Simple,” she replied. “I can’t act.”
“That hasn’t stopped Marly Andrews,” he
murmured.
She grinned appreciatively. “Yes, well I hate
making a fool of myself. And think how scandalized
Mother would be. I saw this guy this afternoon only
because he was a friend of Fred’s.”
“Ah,” he said, “Fred.”
They had reached Sardi’s and the maitre d’
proved very accommodating, finding them a table
even though the restaurant was crowded. They
ordered drinks and Patsy said she didn’t want anything to eat.
“Are you sure?” Michael asked. “I’m going to eat.
I only grabbed a quick sandwich for supper—I
worked until after six.”
“You go ahead,” Patsy replied. “I never eat this
late at night. It’s the worst possible thing you can
do—the weight just pours on while you sleep.”
He looked at the spring-green size eight sitting so gracefully across the table from him. “Do you have to worry?”
“I make sure I don’t have to worry,” she said
firmly. “I eat three sensible meals a day and at the proper hours. I absolutely loathe dieting. It’s much easier not to have to.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“Besides,” Patsy said truthfully, “I’m not hun
gry.”
“Well, okay. But I’m going to have the biggest
cheeseburger they can make.”
While he ordered, Patsy sipped her white wine slowly, and when he turned back to her, she made
an obvious attempt to brighten up.
“What’s the matter, Red?” he asked softly.
“You’ve been downcast ever since we left the thea
ter.”
She forced a smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be a
wet blanket.”
“What’s bothering you?” he repeated. “Was it the
play?”
She sighed. “Yes. It hit too close to home, I
guess.” She looked into her glass and slowly moved
the wine back and forth. “I guess I saw a little of
myself in Annie,” she said, still looking at her drink,
“and I can’t say I liked what I saw.” He didn’t
answer, and she looked up to find him watching
her gravely. “You know that scene at the beginning, when she tells her husband she’s in love with Henry
and she’s leaving him? And then, when the hus
band falls to pieces, all she can think of is that his distress is in such bad
taste?”
He nodded, still not
speaking. “Well,” she continued unhappily, “it
reminded me of Don and me. I broke up with him
Sunday, you see, and he made the most ghastly
scene. The thing was, he really meant it. He did
care. And all I could think of was that his dramatics
were in such bad taste. He made me feel guilty and
uncomfortable, you see, and I just wished he would
stop and go away.” She pushed her drink toward
the middle of the table and said tragically, “I’m a terrible person, Michael. I don’t mean to be, but I
am.”
He smiled very faintly, although his eyes
remained grave. “You’re not a terrible person,
Red.”
She felt tears sting her eyes. “What’s the matter
with me?” she almost wailed. “I gave a year of my
life to Don. I thought I loved him. And now I don’t
care if I ever see him again.” She sniffed. “In fact, I
hope I don’t.”
He handed her his handkerchief. “You made a
mistake,” he said matter-of-factly.
Patsy blew her nose. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it
were just Don,” she continued, her voice muffled
by his handkerchief. “Sally was teasing me about always being in love, and it’s true. I do think I’m in
love, and then it always turns out that I’m not. It’s
very depressing.”
Michael’s quick smile flashed. “I see,” he said. And
then he laughed.
“It isn’t funny,” Patsy said mournfully. “I want to
feel about love the way Henry did in the play
tonight. I want to find ‘the real thing.’ But I’m
afraid I never will. I’m too shallow.”
“The one thing you are not, sweetheart,” he said
comfortingly, “is shallow.”
The waiter arrived with his cheeseburger and Michael ordered another round of drinks. Patsy
watched him bite into his burger. “You don’t think
so?” she asked hopefully.
“Nope.”
“Then what’s the
matter
with me?” she repeated
in genuine bewilderment.
“Not a thing in the world,” he assured her.
“Mmm, this is good. Want a french fry?”
“All right.” Patsy reached out and snared one off
his plate.
“You just haven’t met the right guy yet,” he said
after he had swallowed. “You have a great capacity
for love, Patsy, I’m quite sure of that. Up until now
you’ve mistaken liking and sexual attraction for
love—it’s something that’s very easy to do. The
number of divorces proves that, I think.”
“I guess so,” Patsy said doubtfully.
“When you meet the right man, you’ll know it.”
Patsy took another french fry. “How can you be
so sure?”
“Because it’s a completely different feeling.
When ‘the real thing’ hits, you’ll know it, all right.”
“Has it hit you?” Patsy asked very softly.
“Yep. So I know, you see. The other thing is just a
diversion.”
He knew. That meant ... Patsy did not like to
think of what it meant. “What happened?” she
asked.
“She didn’t love me,” he replied simply, and took
another bite of his cheeseburger.
“Oh, Michael.” Patsy’s great brown eyes were
filled with compassion.
He smiled crookedly. “Don’t look so tragic. I’ve learned to live with it.”
“She’s a fool,” Patsy said abruptly, and he shook
his head.
“No. She’s a lot of things, but she’s not a fool.
Have another french fry?”
“if you insist,” Patsy said, and helped herself.
* * * *
His car was parked once again in front of her apartment. “Come up for a cup of tea,” she said as they got out of the cab.
“I don’t think—” he began.
“Michael!”
she cut in, “I promise not to seduce
you. Now will you stop making excuses and just come up?”
She had succeeded in startling him, she saw. Tak
ing his arm, she gave an impatient tug.
The familiar grin dawned. “Take back that
promise and I’ll come.”
It was her turn to be startled. She decided to
ignore his last comment. “Come on,” she repeated,
more softly this time, and he walked beside her into
the building. They didn’t talk until they were in her
apartment.
“Do you want tea?” she asked him, “or another
drink?”
“Tea please.” He followed her into the kitchen
and sat at the table while she got out the tea kettle. “All your Englishness comes out when you make
tea,” he remarked idly as he watched the deft move
ments of her hands.