Other People's Houses(47)

“No, he looks like he does on-screen, pretty tall.” Most actors were shorter than you’d think, Iris had discovered, with big heads and large features and an overwhelming tendency to look at themselves in mirrors, windows, other people’s sunglasses. She had never been very comfortable with “industry” people, and largely kept away. But they did have some friends from Sara’s work, like Lynsey.

“How was your day?” Sara’s feet were warming up, and her arms stole around Iris’s waist and tugged her closer, rubbing her face into her neck, smelling the clothes soap they used, feeling secure and loved. She could give David Rapelli’s gratitude a run for its money.

Iris shrugged. “It was good.” Then she suddenly gasped and sat up. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t tell you this as soon as you walked through the door! Anne Porter has been having an affair and Charlie found out today and threw her out. They had a huge fight in the street, I saw the whole thing, it was awful.”

Sara rolled away from her wife and sat up. “No way.”

“Way.”

“Seriously? She was cheating? How long had that been going on?” Sara looked genuinely shocked and surprised.

Iris shook her head. “No idea. Frances said she thought several months.”

“How did Frances know that?”

“She talked to Anne about it.”

“She knew about it before Charlie did?”

“Yeah, but only for a few days.” Iris told Sara the craft supplies/infidelity story.

Sara sat there and gazed at her. “Holy Fucking Shit. Those poor kids. What a disaster. Do you want more ice cream?”

Iris nodded. Sara grabbed her bowl and headed downstairs. The dog followed her, and Iris sat in bed and listened to the two of them having a conversation. Or at least, Sara had a conversation, but Rosco was apparently jotting his answers down on a pad because Iris couldn’t catch his responses at all. When Sara came back she had two bowls with her. One contained her own ice cream, which was vanilla and about the size of a walnut, and the other was for Iris, which had two flavors of ice cream, whipped cream and chocolate sauce.

“We’re out of maraschino cherries,” Sara said, as she helped Rosco get up on the bed again. “We weren’t, but I gave Rosco the last one.”

“That explains his pink nose. Are maraschino cherries good for dogs?”

“No idea. I give him them all the time, and he’s never complained.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, that’s why we’re out. Anyway, tell me more about Anne and Charlie. What’s going to happen?” She sat down, still naked, put the bowl in her lap, screamed at the cold, got up, put on a T-shirt, and tried again.

While watching this pantomime, Iris half-heartedly picked up her magazine, then put it down. “I don’t know. It’s just happened. I doubt they even know themselves.” She looked at Sara. “Would you divorce me if I cheated on you?”

Sara nodded. “Of course. If I knew. If I didn’t know I’d be fine about it.” She frowned. “You’re not cheating, are you?”

“Of course not. Not that I’d tell you.”

“Right.” Sara tipped her head on one side as she thought about it, a habit she had that impersonators often mocked. It was natural, though, she’d always done it. “I guess it would also depend on what kind of cheating.”

Iris turned onto her side, facing her wife. “How do you mean? Isn’t there one basic kind, the kind where you sleep with someone you’re not married to?”

“Yeah, but there are so many variations on the theme.”

“Please explain, Professor.”

Sara sat up in bed and curled her legs under her, counting off on her fingers. “One, the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am school of cheating, where you hook up with strangers in bars, hotels, nightclubs, and simply have sex. No information is exchanged, no follow-up is expected or desired.”

Iris nodded. “I’ve heard of this, continue.”

“Second, the kind that comes up on sets or on vacation or on temporary assignments of one kind or another. This kind is mostly about sex, but it’s also about re-creating the first few days or weeks of a new relationship. You’re both slightly nauseous, you lose ten pounds in as many days, you start wearing nicer underwear . . .”

“Or NO underwear . . .”

“If you’re that way inclined, and you flirt in front of other people and generally toy with the secrecy and excitement of illicit romance. However, it is always understood that this is a fling, nothing more, and although it can be passionate and personal and intimate, it is not intended to develop into anything.”

“OK, check.” Iris was suddenly enjoying this conversation less. Sara had clearly thought this through.

“Third—and this is where it starts to get sticky—is the kind that starts as one of the above, usually the latter, and then gets out of hand. This can happen anytime, to anyone, which is why infidelity is such a dumb idea if you love your spouse. One minute you’re having a giggle with the wardrobe girl, and the next she’s boiling your rabbit, if you get my reference.”

“To Fatal Attraction, yes, I get the reference. We don’t have a rabbit, thankfully.”

“True. And finally, you have the worst—or best—kind of infidelity, the one where you fall in love with someone else and your marriage ends.”