Fanchon's Book(46)

"Oooh, I like that." Then, with a coquettish flutter of eyelashes, "Hey there, voluptuous Fanchon, how about taking a little sniff of my perfume?"

I needed no coaxing. It was a long deep sniff and it led to other things, warm-lipped kisses, flurries of tender violence, exquisitely fanciful embraces spurred by the excitement of the manuscript; I felt as if my effort was already paying off-in pleasure if not in money. And thereafter, almost by tacit agreement, the discussion of each day's work became a regular ritual with us: I read aloud to her and she got aroused and affectionate and eager for fleshly frolics. Whereupon we jumped into bed as if fact and fiction were one and inseparable. Which, in turn, inspired me to write with even greater abandon: the hotter the passages, the hotter the embraces and I let my imagination run wild. But hardly wilder than my little devil-darling's whims. Ah, the delights of those post-literary dalliances! Truly, in every connotation of the phrase, my creation became a labor of love.

But alas, our holiday drew to a close and we had to return home and take up our old way of life, not a tragedy, really, since we did have plenty of time together. Nevertheless, it wasn't the same-and once we settled into the daily routine Kristi grew increasingly restive about the book and money and the hoped-for apartment; worse yet, she got somewhat slack with her household chores. I lent a hand now and then but was too busy writing my novel to do much. So the place got a bit messy and at last I was forced to censure her for it.

The reprimand wasn't my idea. But I couldn't openly contradict Oliver-and when he grumbled about the laziness of my maid, I had no choice. So I scolded her. Right there at the dinner table, with Oliver looking on and nodding his head in smug approval.

Such a painful duty! All the more so considering how long it would be before I might get a chance to apologize. Hours, probably: it was the opening night of the opera, a major social function, and we were already dressed and ready to go. Nor could I smile and chide her gently, not with my husband watching; much as it hurt me to do it, I gave her the necessary tongue-lashing and ordered her to get some housecleaning done while we were out. She took it meekly, but I knew only too well what a rage she must have been in.

She didn't show it, though, not even when I maneuvered a few minutes alone with her with the professed purpose of adding a final touch to my hairdo and makeup. Instead, she fussed over me like a devoted servant, coddling me, telling me how beautiful I looked in my white tulle gown, bending to adjust the flounces, crouching to brush a speck of dust from my shoe, helping me into my wrap, oh, the little minx was practically killing me with kindness. Only when I tried to offer an apology for the unfortunate incident in the dining room did I detect any sign of coolness in her demeanor. And it was scarcely more than a shrug of indifference.

"Forget it, Fanchon."

"But I want you to know how sorry-"

"Not now, dear. Go to the opera and have a good time. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"Not tonight? Darling? Won't you wait up for me?"

"Well… I don't know. Should I?"

"I wish you would. Tonight, especially. You know why."

"Hmm, that's right. He won't be coming home with you, isn't that what you said? We'll have the house all to ourselves?"

"All to ourselves. There's some sort of political meeting after the opera, and those things always last till morning."

"Uh-huh. I'll stay up."

"And I'll be-thinking about you all through the opera."

"Mmm, I'm glad. Think about me." Then, rather brusquely, "And he-re's something to remind you that I'm waiting." She reached under her skirt and pulled her panties off. "I've worn them all day, so they're not exactly perfumed. But you do like to sniff me, don't you, Fanchon?"