The Woman Next Door (7 page)

She frowned.

"I just love this snappy repartee, Christine."

"Hey, I didn't ask to be seduced."

"And I didn't ask for all this self-pitying, self-indulgent horseshit you've been slinging at me. And, by the way, yes, you
did
ask to be seduced."

She thought about that. "Okay, so I did. Now I've got a headache."

Tim threw his hands in the air: "Jesus Lord in Heaven!" He cupped her face in his hands. She made a feeble attempt to pull away; he tightened his hold slightly. "I love you, I love you, I love you, Christine. And I want to take you to bed." He expected a quick, witty reply, saw that she was trying to form one, but the moment passed. Several moments. And then:

"I'm only a hundred and five pounds," she said, softly. "Think you can lift me, Tim?"

"Well," he began, in a husky whisper, "I haven't lifted weights in a long time, but. . . ." He let the remark die. He stood, bent over, put one arm around the back of her neck, the other behind her knees, and lifted.

The effort made him fart.

They laughed all the way into the bedroom.

T
he laughter stopped abruptly when he lowered her slowly, and with great gentleness, onto the bed.

Christine pushed herself to a sitting position, her back against the headboard. "Your mattress is much too soft," she said, trying for the gaiety of moments before.

Tim said nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned toward her. His hands went to the top button of her blouse.

Christine put her right hand on his. "Can we . . . talk first, Tim?"

His hands, beneath her hand, worked expertly at the button, unfastened it, started on the second button. "Tim, please. . . ."

He unfastened the second button, paused a moment, then took his hands away from her. He held them up in a mock gesture of surrender. "Okay, okay, we'll go as slow as you want. Do you think I should send out for pizzas?"

"Tim, try to understand." She started to button up her blouse, stopped. "Try to remember what it was like for you—your first time, I mean. Then multiply whatever agony you felt by a hundred, a thousand."

Tim did remember: It happened when he was fifteen. He was visiting a friend whose parents were divorced. An overnight visit. A little past midnight he had gotten out of bed to use the bathroom, and, on his way back to the bedroom, was confronted by his friend's mother. "You have bedroom eyes," she told him, and Tim thought that that was an odd thing to say. "Thank you," he said, and felt her hand on him. The next two hours were, she told him later, his "initiation to manhood." However true or false that was, he thought now, she had given him one of the most marvelous nights of his life.

"Yes," he said to Christine, hoping his he wasn't obvious, "you're right. It was agony. I'm Sorry."

"All I'm asking, Tim"—she put her hand on his shoulder—"is that we go slow. You don't gulp down a bottle of Dom
Perignon
, do you?"

"I don't drink Dom
Perignon
," he said.

"Well, how do you know you're not about to?" Tim liked that, clumsy as it was. "You're a good talker, Christine." It was a challenge.

He watched several emotions sweep across her face—nervousness, fright, passion. Suddenly, she was breathing noticeably deeper. Her hands went to the third button, then the fourth. She hesitated. "They're not much," she said, and in that instant Tim felt an overwhelming affection for her. She unfastened the last button and pulled the blouse open.

It was not the first time he had seen her breasts. She did not wear a bra, and from his vantage point above and behind her when he pushed the wheelchair, he had sneaked more than a few impulsive glances. He felt sure she had known. Now, seeing her face and neck turn a soft shade of red, he realized she hadn't.

He cupped a breast in each hand; they fit nicely. "They're priceless," he said. Her small brown nipples erected almost instantly. He bent over, kissed her left breast, then her right. A tear hit his cheek; he looked up. She was crying.

"Oh, Christine, I'm sorry. Please . . . forgive me." He sat up quickly, cast about in his mind for something to say.

"Sorry for what?" said Christine. She looked pleadingly at him. "Sorry for wanting me?" She quickly pushed herself to a prone position, unzipped her skirt down the side. "I'm protected," she said.

"Protected?"

"I've been on the pill for months, ever since we . . . . Well, I guess I foresaw this evening."

Tim smiled. "Do you mean you can—"

"Tim, I'm not
sterile
; I'm paralyzed."

He bent over her again, pulled her skirt off, started on her panties, hesitated. "It's not too late," he said. "Yes it is," she said.

And it had gone badly from there. Not until the second week of their marriage was Tim finally able to complete the act. Misplaced guilt, and the feeling that he was being somehow perverse, that he was actually using her in a selfish, animalistic way, took their toll immediately. It amazed him: He had thought himself more stable than that.

N
ow, eight months into the marriage, it seemed they often slipped back two steps and went forward only one. This process of acceptance and confidence and sharing, Tim thought, was both hellish and wonderful.

"Tim," he heard, "I'm very horny."

He pulled her to him. Later he would wonder if there was a place in the
Guinness Book of World Records
for the longest-sustained ecstatic lovemaking.

B
rett Courtney whispered, "Shit!" Where was his secretary this morning? Then he remembered: It was Sunday. "Shit!" he repeated.

He felt a twinge at the back of his neck—a migraine just starting. He hurried into his office, sat behind his desk. And waited. The migraine would last at least an hour, and in that time he would be able to do nothing but suffer through it.

He heard a knock at his office door—just one, and soft. A woman, he thought immediately. He decided to wait; maybe whoever it was would go away. The knock came again, and again, slightly louder. Brett grimaced. "Who
is
it?"

A woman's voice answered, "May I see you, Mr. Courtney?"

Brett, agitated, went to the door, pulled it open. "Yes?" And couldn't help staring. The woman was almost impossibly beautiful. The word
stunning
occurred to him, but he rejected it immediately; it implied a momentary shock, a quick surge of deep appreciation that soon dissipated, and this woman's beauty was so much greater than that.

She introduced herself: "My name's Andrea Ferraro. I'd like to talk with you, Mr. Courtney."

He held the door open, watched her step into the office. She studied it briefly.

"Very functional," she said. "I like that, Mr. Courtney." Her voice was high-pitched but exceedingly pleasant; it reminded Brett of his mother's voice.

He gently pushed the door closed. "What can I do for you, Ms. Ferraro?"

She smiled. His migraine, which had been lingering at the edges of his consciousness, vanished. He felt a smile come to his lips.

"Thank you," she said, "but I don't mind the word
Miss
. I've always thought
Ms
. was an affectation." She paused, considered. "In fact," she continued, "I'd really prefer that you called me Andrea."

She crossed the office, sat in a black
Naugahyde
chair to the left of Brett's desk. Brett watched appreciatively as she adjusted her plaid skirt around her knees—he had always liked plaid skirts—and made herself comfortable. He felt certain her little feminine motions were being done for his benefit; it made him feel good.

"Uh, yes, Miss Ferraro—"

"
Andrea
," she corrected, her tone a gentle, almost inviting rebuke.

"Andrea. What can I do for you?" He strode quickly, arms straight at his side, to his desk chair, sat, felt a warm, delicious pain he hadn't felt in years. Embarrassment mixed with pleasure flooded through him. Not since his college days had he achieved an erection merely by
watching
a woman. . . .

"Mr. Courtney?" he heard, and became aware that Andrea had been saying something. "You seem preoccupied, Mr. Courtney." There was no puzzlement in her voice. Her tone was one of recognition, knowledge.
I know what preoccupies you, Mr. Courtney, and I'm flattered
, her tone said.

The phone rang—once, twice.

"Mr. Courtney," said Andrea Ferraro, nodding, "your phone—"

"Oh!" He grinned apologetically—"Yes, excuse me" —snatched the phone up, as if in anger, and swiveled his chair around so that his back was to his visitor. He had a good idea who was calling.

"Brett Courtney," he said.

"Brett?" It was Marilyn; he'd guessed right.

"Yes, Marilyn, what is it?" He found that he was speaking in a low, secretive tone.

"It's about Greg. Remember that . . . distasteful matter we discussed last week?"

"Distasteful matter? What are you talking about?" Then he remembered. "Oh, that. Yes, I remember." "Well, I'm afraid it's come up again."

"Marilyn, I thought we decided to forget it. The boy is nearly ten years old; things aren't the same as when you and I were that age."

"That's very progressive, Brett, but he's my son, too, and if you're unwilling to give me some constructive ideas—"

"My idea is to let it alone, Marilyn. It's normal, it's natural, it's probably even healthy, for Christ's sake."

"You're swearing at me, Brett."

Brett sighed. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. I've got one of those damned migraines." It was close to the truth.

Marilyn chuckled shortly, derisively. "Only
women
get migraines, Brett. What you've really got is a severe case of apathy. But that's all right. You want me to handle this situation, I'll handle it."

"Marilyn, can you at least wait until I get home?" "It's unwise to put off punishment, Brett."

"Marilyn, for God's sake!"

"Good-bye, Brett." She hung up.

Brett slowly replaced the receiver, swiveled his chair around.

Andrea Ferraro was gone.

"Miss Ferraro?" He stood, went to the office door, opened it. "Miss Ferraro?" Nothing. He turned, glanced about his office as if this were a game of hide-and-seek she was playing with him. He felt suddenly foolish.

He pushed the door closed, felt the ache beginning again at the back of his head. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered.

He went to his desk chair and sat very slowly. The migraine was fully upon him now.

"H
oney?" Tim called. He opened the door to his studio, stuck his head out. "Honey, I've got to go down to Hahn's. I didn't realize how low I was on developer." He waited There was no reply from below. "Honey?" Again nothing. He opened the door, stepped onto the landing, and leaned slightly forward over the wooden railing. He glanced around the living room. "Honey?" He saw that she was in the wheelchair, her back to him, in front of the window that faced the Courtney house. "Christine?" Still nothing.

He took the elevator to the first floor, hesitated a moment, and stepped out. "Christine?" he repeated. But she remained motionless, silent.

Was she asleep? he wondered. "I've got to go to Hahn's," he repeated, moving slowly toward her. "I'm nearly out of developer." He put his bands on her shoulders, leaned over. "Christine?"

Silence.

He moved to the side of the chair, put one knee to the floor, his hand on her hand on the armrest.

Placid
, he thought. Her face was placid, at rest. She could be asleep, and yet her eyes were open. Not wide, but as if she were thinking something pleasant, as if remembering something that gave her pleasure.

He put gentle pressure on her hand. "Christine?" He stood, grasped her left shoulder, shook it. "I've got to go to Hahn's," he said again, almost desperately. "I'm nearly out of developer."

Silence.

He lowered his head. "Christine," he murmured.

He stood abruptly, crossed to the phone, picked up the address book. What was her doctor's name? After a moment it came to him:
Tichell
. He found the name and number, set the book down, picked up the receiver, started to dial.

"How's it going?" he heard.

He froze for a second. Then, being sure his body blocked Christine's view, he quietly replaced the receiver. He turned. She had craned her head around and was looking questioningly at him.

"Going?" he said.

"Up there." She raised her head to indicate his studio.

"I've got to go to Hahn's." It was a forced monotone. "I'm nearly out of developer."

She maneuvered her chair around to face him and smiled perplexedly. "What's wrong, Tim?"

"I hate to run out of materials right in the middle of a project, that's all. Especially when I'm on a deadline." He went into the foyer, got his coat, shrugged into it. "I won't be long, just a few minutes."