Laura's Dance

Yes, Mondays are the worst, thought Laura in groggy disgust as she stumbled to her computer workstation. Sitting and opening her bag from the coffee shop, she sighed audibly then threw out the sugar, the plastic top from the cardboard cup, and the bag itself. She blew away the rising steam, then experimentally sipped the hot chocolate. Five minutes to nine on a Monday morning, the positive low of the entire week. Thinking of it made her feel downright depressed.

Four years now at the same ad agency. Five days a week, almost every week, fifty weeks a year. Doing something she had never intended to make her whole life’s work. She was an actual artist, laying out ads on the computer. Laura was good at her job, but it was no longer good for her.

In college, she had studied art and had aspired to be a commercial artist. Just what she had imagined that would entail, she wasn’t now sure. Glamour, she thought glumly. Monday mornings that started at eleven o’clock and ended in cocktail hours with charming and attractive men.

She flicked at the computer mouse in front of her, wiping away the bolts of color that her screen saver had sent shooting across the monitor and summoning a vision of the layout she’d been working on late Friday afternoon.

She grumbled an uninspired “hi” to Roger who was settling himself at the desk on the other side of her. Roger was fifty years old, graying fast, and gaining weight at a steady pace. He sat and ate hard candies all day while he worked.

Laura tossed a slightly more lively hello to Cecil, the art director, as he passed. Cecil was all right, except under pressure, which, at this agency, was continuous. Time and media commitments were no respecters of an individual’s sanity.

Dancing was all that Laura had. Dancing made everything worthwhile, made the Monday mornings, and all the rest of them, almost semi-possible to bear. And made them almost utterly unbearable as well, for the way they cut into the time and energy she might otherwise have devoted to the art she really loved.

Well, enough of that. She threw away the now-empty beverage cup and began to block out text on the monitor in order to shift it to another position. She gauged the effect with full concentration. No, not really full. This past weekend was still very much on her mind.

She was thinking of Dante. He was a dancer, too, at the Studio. He taught some classes of beginners there, and just last month had been invited to join Maxwell’s company. Laura admired Dante, very naturally. He was a beautiful dancer, thoroughly dedicated to his work. But was he a beautiful human being as well? Laura couldn’t be sure.

She had never imagined that he had noticed her at all, since she never believed that men actually did. She was pretty, that she knew, but in a quiet sort of way. She thought of Dante now as her fingers called up a digitized photo for her to size and slide into the appropriate spot.

Dante was handsome, tall, and leanly muscled, blond, with a hunk of hair that fell over his eyes and that he constantly, gracefully, pulled into place. He was too graceful, she considered critically—no, not gay, but narcissistic. He was too satisfied with himself, too beautiful to be pleased with any other living thing.

Saturday morning, he had asked her out in a very abrupt, unnatural way. She had been standing in the hall between classes doing an occasional stretch to keep her muscles warm when Dante had passed by. Laura had smiled vaguely, timidly, as she usually did, not expecting any sort of response from him.

“Do you want to go see ABT perform tonight?” he had asked her all at once. “Cary Leonard flew in from London this morning to dance with them.”

Laura was mystified. Was he asking her to go with him? Offering to sell her tickets? Advising her of some opportunity for Studio students? And Cary Leonard of the Royal Ballet dancing with the American Ballet Theatre? “Yes, I’d like to go,” she responded eagerly.

“I’ll meet you at the Metropolitan Opera House then. About seven thirty-five. We can go in early and watch the audience. I actually have tickets for orchestra seats.” All at once, and for the first time, he smiled at her.

She was dazzled by the radiance he emitted and dazed by the unexpected turn of events. She hurried into the classroom and nervously began running through a few basic exercises. Cary Leonard. Dante. She couldn’t settle down enough to focus until five minutes after the class had begun.

Thinking of it now, Laura decided he had asked her in such a way because he was shy. It was such a shy boy thing to do, blurting it out like that, all at once, in an almost uncouth way. But he wasn’t shy, not Dante; he wasn’t shy at all. That’s what made it so utterly confusing. She leaned toward the computer, frowned and squinted. Was that typeface Times New Roman, or wasn’t it?

No, Dante wasn’t shy. He thrived on female attention, which was readily forthcoming from the women who he taught or danced with. Laura had witnessed a great deal of that. Like many men as incredibly handsome as he, he had an easy, seductive way of coaxing females into loving him. And even Laura, the strong-willed woman of principle that she wished she was, must yield to his magnetic draw.

But not altogether. And it never would be altogether until she knew conclusively that he was more than what he seemed. And he seemed to be a man locked into an intense admiration of himself, drawing women to him to fan the flames of this passionate self-love.

Beautiful, so beautiful, she had breathed, almost startled at the sight of him at ten minutes to eight in front of the theater. She had rushed, worrying that she would be late, forever earning the scorn of a professional for a would-be, a hanger-on. She had torn her pantyhose in the taxi and had waited for him outside in the chill for fifteen minutes.

He hadn’t apologized, but had leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, which pleased her greatly. He had led her in, darting his eyes every which way to take in the scene, but keeping his hand comfortably ensconced under her elbow.

The performance was ecstatic. It brought Laura out of herself, elevated her into the world of her imaginings, a world of utmost harmony, of angels, of purely spiritual beings. That was a world in which she danced also, where her limbs were untiring and had the flexibility to do exactly as she wished.

Afterward, she and Dante had talked for more than an hour, drinking coffee and eating French fries in a nearby coffee shop. Laura had been surprised at her “date” for ordering the greasy fries. Maybe he isn’t absolutely perfect, she had thought. She had requested an order of French fries, too.

Dante had walked her to the subway, but hadn’t asked to go home with her, as many of her few dates nowadays did. This was just a spur-of-the-moment friendship, Laura had thought with an inward sigh. He had kissed her once again on the cheek in saying good-bye.

Timidly—but the gesture had been a bold one for her—Laura had invited Dante to her health club the next day for a swim. He had agreed.

Sunday, he’d met her in front of the club in time. They’d gone swimming and sat in the whirlpool together and in the eucalyptus room. Afterward, they had gone up to the food concession for a sandwich and juice. And later on, he had come home with her and they put on some music and had danced. Not together, in a romantic way, but separately, each self-absorbed in the creation of movement.

When the Miles Davis piece had ended, Laura had gone to put on another CD. Dante caught her by the arm. Their eyes met directly. “You’re quite good, really. You ought to come to more classes,” he said. Laura’s face had flushed. That was the highest compliment he could have given her.

Instead of letting her go, he had pulled her even closer to him. His face was ruddy, bright, expressive. He held her a moment before they kissed. Her knees were weak and she leaned into his body for support. Then he released her, pushing her away. She had been in a state of intense confusion, frustration, and conflict. She sat on the creaking bamboo settee.

“I ought to go,” he had muttered. “I’ve promised a friend…” An ironic half-smile went with those words.

“Of course,” she had responded, feeling in that moment that she absolutely hated him, but blaming herself bitterly for being vulnerable to his wiles.

She had given him his jacket, helped him on with it, in fact. It’s just as well had been her thought. It’s so much better that he go. It’s so much better that I don’t become involved.

“I’ll see you during the week,” he had told her. “You take a six o’clock class with Paulette every evening? I’m going to dance with her in a new piece Maxwell is working on, something especially for us.”

“She’s good,” Laura had agreed, wondering if Paulette was the friend Dante was meeting now.

When the door had closed behind him, Laura had felt a loneliness she had become unused to. She wasn’t often lonely, strangely, maybe because she seldom gave herself up to the company of others. She had grown used to a solitary existence.

I won’t see him again, Laura thought now, at work, putting a stack of paper in the printer so she could view the layout on the page. Well, of course she would see him at the Studio. And she’d be friendly in a completely uncomplicated way. It would be so, so foolish to expect anything like real affection from a man like that. That he was both handsome and shallow wasn’t his fault. And she mustn’t imagine that she could teach him to be otherwise. The truth of her thoughts pained her heart more than a little.

Cecil stood by the printer and picked up her layout to examine it as it rolled out of the unit. “Did you see the Martett insert in the Sunday Times? he asked.

“It looked good,” she responded agreeably, trying to inspect her own handiwork over Cecil’s shoulder.

“The colors were off, I thought,” he said, scanning Laura’s work with a critical eye. “We have some rush Macy’s layouts in this morning, if you want to work on those.”

She particularly didn’t. “All right,” she said as if the idea sounded like great fun.

She took lunch at twelve-thirty and had salad and chips at the Korean deli on the corner, but was hungry for more after she was through. She resisted. Back at work, she went into the lady’s room and did a few stretches until one of the writers, whose name she didn’t know, came in. They concurred on the niceness of the day.

From one-thirty to five-oh-five, Laura worked on three Macy’s layouts, finally finishing them and emailing them on to Cecil for his okay. She then accepted two candies from Roger, an orange and a lemon, and crunched into them rather than letting them dissolve over time. Using Adobe Illustrator, she quickly sketched in a handsome, rugged face to indicate where a photo might be inserted in the ad when the picture arrived.

The face was so unlike Dante’s that it made Laura smile. But it was very like the face of the man she had been married to for six months several years before. That sudden realization made her frown. Her unconscious drawing of Shetley gave her something else to think about as she straightened her workstation and prepared to leave.

Laura put her arms around her new husband and gazed up at him with trust. Shetley was the dearest thing in the world to her. “Do you want to go with my folks for a ride out to Rockford Beach?” She asked him not so much because she wanted to go, but because she wanted her father to come to know Shetley a little better. To respect him as she did.

“Sure,” Shetley grinned, kissing and releasing her. That he get a job with her dad’s architectural design house, the best-known in the heavily populated, tri-city bay area was just as important to him as it was to her, she knew. Of course her father would be open to that, once he really knew Shetley.

Laura wasn’t certain exactly why her dad was so doubtful about Shetley’s character. Any man, she thought with a touch of anger, who really wanted her. Her father hadn’t taken to Shetley, at any rate, still saluted him with cool nods and polished one-liners designed to bring the conversation to an end.

“I have no room in the firm for that boy,” he had told Laura before she brought the matter up. She let it alone. After he got to know Shetley, he would react differently.

Laura’s mother wanted somewhat the same thing that Laura did, although not necessarily Shetley’s guaranteed employment. By no means was she going to lose her only daughter over any matter so small as that daughter’s husband. She was polite to Shetley, naturally, but she didn’t exactly seem to know who he was. He was a newcomer to this part of Michigan, wasn’t he? She and her family, and her husband and his, had been here for absolutely generations.

“Don’t worry, kitten,” Shetley said sweetly. He kissed the lobe of her ear, and then her cheek. “Old Tim’s going to like me. In fact, he’s going to love me as much as you do, in no time flat.”

She was flooded with tenderness for her adorable husband. She caught his arms with the thick, corded veins standing out. She kissed his rough but gentle hands. She believed in him, believed in his talent.

Laura had asked her parents for financial support. Her mother had agreed at once, and her father, too, after only a moment’s hesitation. Shetley concurred with Laura’s plan. One day he would be a rich architect and his wife would wear fine furs and jewels, exactly the way her mother did. In the meantime, they would have to depend on her family’s generosity.

She was lucky to have him. She knew that. And it seemed that he cared for her, deeply, as much almost as she cared for him. But her throat tightened when her mind plucked at the edges of such thoughts. Certainly he cared for her. But how could he love her in the overwhelming way that she loved him?

Life was good; she shouldn’t bring these almost non-existent problems to mind. But was he looking for a job, actually? What did he do in those long hours he was gone from the apartment? And why, oh why, couldn’t her dad get him a job, at least with one of the other architectural firms in town.

At the beach, Laura was able to forget all her doubts. To be a little girl again, to swim, to play, to have her mother tell her what to eat for lunch was easy. Laura was aware that she had never grown up. She had never wanted to. She’d had her mother. Now she had Shetley.

The sun hadn’t yet gone down when they began to prepare to leave. Laura walked with her father to the end of the dock to make sure the old skiff had been securely tied. Being with her father like this always made Laura feel ill at ease. But tonight, for once, she wanted to talk to him.

“What is it about Shetley, Daddy? Do you know something about him that I don’t?”

“I know that he’s bound to break your heart. You didn’t choose wisely, Laura.” He leaned down angrily toward the water to check on his knot.

“But tell me,” she began again. “Do you know something, or not?”

“Look, Laura…” He straightened and took her arm, but she shrank back. “The boy doesn’t have a penny to his name. He has good looks, but little else. Why would he marry you, of all people? Did you ever ask yourself why it was my daughter he chose?”

“He loves me,” she insisted to her father. “You can’t believe that anyone could ever love me, because you never did.”

“I’ve always loved you,” her father told her. “I’ve always done my very best for you.”

“Then see that Shetley finds a job.” She said this like an ultimatum. “I mean it, Daddy,” she repeated with some force.

“I do know things that you don’t know,” he answered. “Things I never wanted you to find out.”

Suddenly she was frightened by the forbidden subject she herself had opened up. She walked past him, toward the house, toward her mother.

“Laura,” her father called to her from behind. “Shetley was caught taking bribes from a construction company when he was a draftsman with the city of Charleston last year. I’ve had an investigator.”

“You’re lying. Who would bribe a draftsman?” she asked with scorn, turning to face him.

“He and the chief architect for the city were caught, but not indicted. He happened to be in a somewhat privileged position due to his relationship with the councilwoman who was chair of the planning board. He’s a well-known womanizer, your husband, and a little thing like marriage hasn’t stopped that.”

Laura didn’t know where to turn in her confusion. Her whole world had crumbled in just a matter of hours and all that she could do, once home, was cry.

In a little while, Laura dialed her mother’s line. “Did Daddy tell you about our conversation?” she asked. “What should I do, Mommy?” Laura was distraught.

“Your father says he can call Bill Hutchins and begin arranging for a divorce. Pack a few things and come home to stay. We’ll look after you as we always have.” Her mother’s voice had a low, conspiratorial tone.

Laura soothed the crumpled bedspread. Sleeping beside Shetley’s welcome warmth was such heaven that some nights she didn’t even want to fall asleep. He was good to her, too; he had never raised his voice or been unkind.

But did he love her? If he didn’t, that was the cruelest blow of all. If he laughed at her devotion and went out with other women, or with one woman for whom he actually cared, she would never be able to forgive him that.

The doorbell rang as she packed her suitcase. It was her dad, who hurried her away, not giving her the time it would take to compose even the hastiest note to her beloved husband. She escaped, returning to the house in which she had grown up.

Shetley called every day, several times a day at first. Laura had gotten rather rottenly sick, some type of flu. She didn’t talk to him on the phone at all until about three days later. Strangely, she felt that having been sick in that way had almost drained Shetley right out of her system. She was surprised by the necessity of having to speak to him at all.

But they did speak. Shetley by then knew why she had left and had received an offer of a small financial settlement from her parents. Her husband wanted to see Laura in person first before agreeing to anything. Weakly, she consented to the meeting.

He told her that he loved her, that he always had, persuaded her, and she believed him, that if he had wanted a wife only as a stepping-stone to success, he could have done considerably better.

She, for her part, had no defense. She hadn’t behaved as a good wife ought. Laura was genuinely regretful. If there was no truth to his having other women, in fact, she would beg him to allow her to come back.

He couldn’t say there was no truth whatsoever. He conceded that what was on the detective’s report was probably true. But the woman had never meant anything more than a dalliance to him. He was bored, not with her, but with his whole life. If he were working, usefully fulfilled, he would never involve himself in any more of that. He promised, for her loved her so.

Up until this moment, she had cherished in her heart the sense that he was utterly innocent of that charge. He couldn’t have made love to her and to another woman as well. The idea was sickening. No man could be that low.

What a little twit Laura was. What a pitiable little fool! She hadn’t the sense she had been born with. Shetley had spun her like a heap of flax. He had played her as a tune on a pipe of his own making. She was a babe in the woods, a susceptible idiot.

That night she awoke in the darkness and the answer came to her, forceful in its simplicity. She would go to another city and find a job. She would live on her own and become an adult, never taking a penny of her parents’ money. She would remain shrewdly suspicious of each and every man. That was it. She would go to New York.

Laura didn’t arrive home from dance class and the health club until ten-fifteen that night. She was still holding steady, but tiring somewhat. She hadn’t eaten a bite all evening except for a muffin before the club. She took off her jacket and reached for an apple.

Funny to think of Shetley this afternoon like that. Her marriage seemed so long ago, and she had changed so awfully much. Thank God she had changed. Thank God she actually might be growing up. That’s what made it possible for her to see through a punk like Dante. He wasn’t a Shetley because he hadn’t the bad manners to make such dishonest pretense, but neither was he the stalwart lover she had been seeking all these years.

Does my dream man exist? she wondered then. Can there be such a man outside of my own imagination?

Pouring some granola into a bowl with a dollop of yogurt, she was about to sit down and turn on the TV, then write out her rent check and others, when the phone rang. The caller could only be her mother or a girlfriend, she thought.

It was Lillian, a friend who used to study at the Studio. Lillian was a model, not a dancer, and she and Laura went to the movies together on occasion.

“You’ll never guess what I’ve got for you,” Lillian began provocatively.

“You’re right,” Laura agreed. “I’ll never guess.”

“I have a boyfriend for you,” Lillian finally announced.

“If he’s so great, why don’t you just keep him?”

“Because I have one of my own right now. I told you about Steven, didn’t I? Things are going awfully well. He’s a lawyer, did I tell you? He’s helping negotiate my new contract. I wouldn’t have had the nerve to insist on the things he’s asking for.”

I hope they keep you on, Laura thought to herself. Aloud, she told Lillian, “That’s great. I saw your picture in Vogue last week. I didn’t know you could look like that.”

“I can’t, but the camera thinks so.” The two of them laughed.

“So who’s this new man you’re going to hand over to me?” Laura was never overly enthusiastic about being fixed up, but sometimes, hopeful, she went along with the blind date.

“Oh, nothing like that, my dear. This is actually a business arrangement. I know his girlfriend. She’s one of the new models at the agency. She’s totally stunning, even in the flesh. If you still have that copy of Vogue, she’s in a five-page pantsuit spread. Exquisite. And she’s studying to be an actress now too. She has two national commercials on television already. I don’t have to tell you how much money she must be making.” Lillian paused in contemplation of such career heights.

“So he’s looking to trade her in for something a little more simple perhaps,” Laura kidded. “A nine-to-five advertising artist with dishwater blonde curls.”

“You ought to have a henna treatment,” Lillian seriously advised. “It’ll lighten your hair and give it body.”

“This is what I look like after two henna treatments,” Laura informed her.

“Oh,” said Lillian. “Henna does wonders for my hair.” A long pause in the conversation ensured. Laura glanced at the clock. Pretty nearly bedtime.

“He’s gorgeous, too,” Lillian continued. “And a brain, as I understand it. Harvard or one of those. Old, old money, I think. That sort of thing.”

Laura picked up her checkbook and propped the telephone under her chin. She was no longer interested in this turn of conversation. She frowned at the total in her checking account. She’d have almost enough to cover the monthly fee after she paid the necessary basics.

Lillian went on with her description. “Of course I’ve never really spoken to him at length. Just politely, that’s all. Not that I’ve wanted to speak impolitely to him. Though I don’t know. Anyway, I’m not sure what he actually does for a living. He’s probably a stockbroker, I get the idea. Well, what it comes down to is this—his grandfather doesn’t like Elise, maybe he thinks that all models are bad sorts of women. I’m not sure. She’s part Indian, maybe that’s it. But Ritchie needs a date to bring to a family party. I don’t know the details. I ran into him in the street and he asked me to go with him, but I said no. I gave him your number at work instead. So I hope you don’t mind.”

Laura minded in a vague way, but she was sure she could handle the situation. “No, that’s all right.” Probably he wouldn’t call her, anyway.

Laura and Lillian hung up, once agreeing to get together over the weekend, although neither would probably be able to find the time.

After writing her checks, Laura realized that she would have to put off buying new leotards until next payday. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, put on pajamas and slid into bed.

She lay there a while, wide awake. She blamed the coffee she had drunk before class, she blamed Shetley, and she thought of Lillian’s crazy phone call. Had Shetley ever married again, she wondered. Had he married a rich girl? Was he doing well? Would he someday be the sort of hard, successful businessman that her own father was? Did he think of her ever, and if so, how?

This boyfriend of the beautiful model, what could he be like? Not a very nice guy, she figured, if he couldn’t stick up for his own girlfriend, and believed deceiving his whole family was a good idea. Oh, probably he was simply ultra-ambitious. He was, no doubt, hoping to start his own brokerage firm on the family old-money investments alone.

Laura tossed and turned until about two o’clock, then spent the rest of the all-too-short night dreaming of searching for the Macy’s man, who had promised to marry her before he went to California.

Laura couldn’t get away from the Macy’s man, even during the daytime. She had more versions of the ad to construct, and two more rough sketches to pop in while waiting for the actual photos. That meant two more pictures of Shetley’s dramatic, masculine visage. Her version did look very much like the man in the actual photograph that had to be replaced, she reassured herself.

At ten-thirty, her cell phone rang. She stood for the first time that morning, gratefully, and answered, not knowing the name caller-ID handed out.

She heard a man’s voice, quite low and gentle. “Laura Reegan?” he asked.

Laura thought perhaps the call was about her Bloomingdale’s charge and was preparing to explain how she had just put the check in the mail, but all she said, until she could be sure, was “yes.”

“This is Richard Decter. I think Lillian Dorvano told you about me?”

“Well, yes, I think so,” Laura responded. She felt a surge of moral superiority. What a pathetic sort of man to actually proceed so unthinkingly with his devious schemes. She waited for the right moment to turn him aside.

“This may be a bad time to ask, but I wonder if I could take you to lunch today. Or tomorrow, perhaps, if that might be more convenient for you. I’m Midtown but anywhere you like would be all right.”

Laura hesitated. Lillian could be a bit scattered sometimes. In fact, she was quite confused more often than not. Maybe she had gotten the idea of the thing all wrong. Her caller’s voice was certainly pleasant and more than respectful.

“Today would be fine,” she replied, adding firmly, “I don’t have more than a vague idea of what the whole thing is about, so I’m not agreeing to anything more than being taken to lunch.”

“Of course not,” he concurred immediately.

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed, or to feel cheated,” she went on. “I can meet you at twelve-forty-five at the Lebanese restaurant on the north side of Thirtieth Street between Madison and Park Avenue South if that’s not too far for you.” She had never eaten there, but had wanted to. “I’m five-four and have blonde hair. I’m wearing red pants and will have on a reddish-tan rawhide jacket.” Her mother had sent the jacket as a birthday gift.

“Okay. I’ll find you,” Richard said.

“Just describe yourself a little,” Laura ordered. He wanted something from her, so she needn’t be shy.

“All right. I’m wearing a charcoal grey suit. It’s wool, I think. It couldn’t be flannel really, could it? My tie is red with thin white stripes. I’m, uh, my hair is light brown. I’m exactly six feet tall. Is that enough?” He sounded either bemused, or maybe a little uncomfortable.

“Twelve-forty-five then,” Laura repeated. “I have only one hour for lunch, so I hope you can be on time.” She hung up without waiting for him to respond. Usually, she ate her lunch all by herself. This wasn’t an overly friendly place, and she was the only female artist here. Not to mention that the artists never actually mixed with the writers, account executives, media people, or support staff. On special occasions, of course, like when someone was leaving, she went out with Cecil, Roger, Abner, and whoever else.

She was happy about her lunchtime date only because it promised to be a distraction. Another face across the table would take her away from her own circuitous thoughts, many of which had been revolving around Dante since he had kissed her on Sunday. She couldn’t help her random fantasies, she acknowledged, although she could and would control her actions.

Richard was already waiting when she approached the restaurant. Knowing at once it was he, she held out her hand and introduced herself. She barely noticed what he looked like, aside from checking the color of his hair and the match of his suit and tie (which had sounded far less tasteful over the telephone than it actually was).

Seated inside the restaurant across from this stranger, Laura became nervous all at once. She hadn’t been all that nice to him on the phone. She studied the menu very hard, finally raising her eyes to look at her companion. Since she was an artist, his face interested her. She had been drawing men’s faces all morning long, in fact. She stared at him without reflecting on her behavior, but he didn’t turn away.

She realized what she was doing, and self-consciously averted her eyes once more. He’s not truly handsome, she finally decided. No, not handsome at all…but something in his face grabbed her attention.

Looking at him had made her feel more trusting, so she reminded herself how dangerous such a trust could be. She was glad that she had been thinking of Shetley the last couple of days, a perfect reminder.

They ordered lunch. For once, Laura ordered enough to make herself full, knowing she would regret eating so much when the time came for dance class.

“That won’t be enough for you,” Richard protested.

“I’m not a big eater,” Laura answered, smiling. “I’m always trying to keep my weight down.”

“Elise does that, too,” her companion acknowledged. “I’m not so sure that’s good for your health.”

For an instant being reminded of the existence of the beautiful Elise stung. But what, after all, was Richard to her? “Your family isn’t happy about Elise,” she prodded.

“Not my family, actually. They could care less. They’ve never met Elise, but I’m sure they’d like her. It’s my grandfather.” Richard became a little fidgety. He played with his silverware and shifted in his seat. He glanced across at Laura without speaking, as if uncertain as to how she would take his next words.

“Your grandfather,” she repeated, to start him talking again.

“My grandfather came into the City one day and met me for dinner and an evening at the theatre. Elise came with us to see the play. My grandfather thought she was a very beautiful girl, but cold. He advised me not to go out with her anymore. Now, every time I see him, he asks whether I’m still dating Elise. Apparently he took an immense dislike to her. I suppose it’s true that she really doesn’t care for older people.” He stopped.

The waiter brought their food, and Laura hungrily began to devour her meal. She swallowed and spoke. “I don’t see that it matters much, really. You could tell him you aren’t seeing her anymore, if you simply want to spare him from worrying.” She considered her own words. Wasn’t she the one who hated lying?

“It isn’t that simple. No, it’s my whole life’s story. My grandfather happens to have a lot of money.” Richard sighed.

Laura’s heart hardened. Why did money do that sort of thing to a man? He seemed well enough dressed, well enough nourished. Couldn’t he be satisfied, even grateful for what he already had?

“My grandfather wants to give at least some of his money to me,” Richard continued. “But, naturally, he wouldn’t be happy thinking that Elise would have a share in it. Elise has plenty of money of her own, in point of fact. I don’t know if you’ve seen her in her perfume commercial?” He looked up at Laura questioningly.

“I don’t watch television very much,” Laura answered, not very interested.

Richard went back to telling his story. “I’m the one who needs the money. Elise says she’ll support me, but I don’t want that. I suppose that sort of thing happens all the time nowadays, of course. Still, I don’t feel I could accept it with anything like good grace.” He smiled somewhat sheepishly.

“Is the stock market that bad?” inquired Laura. She was determined that a healthy young man such as he should work for a living.

“The stock market?” Richard was puzzled.

“I was under the impression that you were a stockbroker,” she explained, seeing his confusion. She had finished her meal, and though she was no longer ravenous, peered over wistfully at her date’s half-touched plate.

“A stockbroker!” He laughed. “I work for a fine arts dealer. I appraise. I buy. I sell. All sorts of junk that’s prized as fine art. And all sorts of fine pieces that are put into otherwise junk heap surroundings. I’m not being accurate. I’m just complaining. Some of our buyers have respect for classic craftsmanship and art. Not many, but some.”

He smiled again. “That’s only one of the things that drives me crazy about my job,” he told her. “My boss has owned and run the business for thirty-eight years, and his taste and mine don’t always agree. He’s a shrewd businessman, but I hate to spend days negotiating for stuff that really seems a waste of time to me.”

“I quite understand,” Laura put in.

“I feel silly talking only about myself this way, but I suppose it’s necessary,” Richard said. He looked at her and actually saw her for a moment, in a way that was pleasing to Laura and knocked at the door of her emotions.

The waiter took the dishes and they both ordered some tea. Then Richard began to speak once again about his situation. “The thing of it is, I’m a painter,” he explained. He spread his hands in front of himself, examining them. Laura checked them out, too. They were good hands, she thought. “I’m a painter and I want to paint,” he told her emphatically. “I’ve spent too many years slaving at the gallery and not doing the work I know I was born for. I’m a painter and I need desperately to hold a brush in my hand. You can’t imagine how it’s killing me.”

Laura could imagine. She thought of all the times she had almost broken down and asked her parents for money to live on while she studied dance, as she was meant to. Her pride was too hard-wired, however, to actually go through with it. Sure, in some way, she still even blamed her father for the breakup of her marriage. She was wrong to think like that, she knew, but the feeling lingered.

Richard was watching Laura so intensely that the scrutiny made her face redden. Seeing that, he glanced away. He smiled somewhat bitterly. “Everyone tells me to paint on the weekends. They don’t realize that to paint seriously, I just can’t do it that way. Anyhow, by the time Friday evening arrives, I’ve had it. I need those two days to rest and relax. And fill all my other responsibilities and obligations. I have a lot of social obligations working at the gallery. And Elise has a lot of social obligations as well.”

Did they live together? Laura wondered. Was he always Elise’s escort to this constant round of parties, or did she have plenty of other escorts, too. And did he date any other women as well?

“That’s why I need you to come with me to visit my grandfather. He wants to give me the money, and believe me, I want to take it from him. I don’t need much to live on. I don’t even need to live in the City, although I can’t live too far away. What do you say? Will you help me out? I know it will be a big inconvenience to you, but I’m prepared to pay you for it. Of course, if he doesn’t take a liking to you, either, the deal is off. I’ll have to get an entirely new girlfriend.” He smiled to show that he was somewhat kidding.

Laura drank her tea without commenting. It had been served in a glass and had a peppermint flavor that surprised her. She had been dead set against agreeing to Richard’s demands before she met him. But now she couldn’t think of any objection she might make. How much money was he going to offer her?

“When would these visits take place?” she asked. “And how often?”

“Just one to begin with. We could make it any time you liked.” He looked at her hopefully.

“Sunday would fit into my schedule, if that would suit you,” she answered. But what was she doing?