Fanchon's Book(53)

"Darling… please don't-"

"You'd better not complain or I'll make it longer."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Cheer up, its only one night. And you can have Rosalba to keep you company."

"No! Never again. I don't want Rosalba."

"Is that so? I'm glad to hear it. Then you won't mind if I take her myself. To keep me company."

"You-you and Rosalba?"

"Sure. What's wrong with that? You had her this afternoon, didn't you? So why shouldn't I have her tonight? And since she's an invited guest, well, you might be gracious about it and offer us your bedroom. You'll do that, won't you, Fanchon?"

So jaunty, such smiling nonchalance; didn't she realize what she was doing to me? But of course she did. It was her way of making me suffer: depriving me of her companionship, inflicting a sentence more stiff than I had bargained for, letting someone else take my place in her affections-and in my own bed. Her way of getting even-and with a vengeance. Oh, it was just her way-and I should have known my dereliction would cost me dearly.

It cost me, all right. I had a rough night. For a while I sat in Oliver's room and tried to work on my novel. But the thing seemed like such pretentious trash, and I got to brooding over it and seriously contemplated junking the entire project. Nor did I find much divertissement in my absent husband's collection of pornographic books, less pretentious, perhaps, but certainly just as trashy-and how could a printed page of erotica be anywhere near as exciting as the eroticism of my everyday existence?

Falling asleep was also a losing skirmish. I tossed about in restless irritation, uncomfortable in the purgatory of Oliver's bed and agonizing over what was going on in my own. Kristi and Rosalba. What are they doing in there? A dozen different visions tortured me, and I struggled valiantly to guide my thoughts into less troublesome channels. But sleep played truant. Until at last I got up and padded into Kristi's small room-and there, lulled by the lingering scent of my beloved, comforted by her near-intimacy, I managed to quell my melancholia and drift off into dream-void torpor.

Hours later the touch of her hand coaxed my eyelids open, it glided across my face to the soft awakening of my lips. I kissed it and left slumber behind. She was sitting on the edge of my bed-no, her bed-draped in a negligee (mine? hers?) that scarcely screened the dazzling splendor of her body.

"Good morning, my poor punished Fanchon. So this is where you slept last night,. hmm? I looked in your husband's room first."

I murmured a muted good-morning-darling into the palm of her hand. Her fingertips turned tenderly sportive and I prolonged the kiss gratefully, aware that my term of excommunication was over. The only blessing of a lovers' tiff is the bliss of making up afterward; and wasn't she an angel to seek me out like this. and make the initial overture?

"Hey, that library in there is really something. Now that he's away, maybe I'll get a chance to read the dirty books." She stroked my cheek and ended the caress in an airy gesture of self-reproach. "Oh, I'm such a lazy girl. If I spend my time reading, who'll do the housework?"

"Read all you like. But the collection is pretty dull, I'm afraid. I found that out last night. Somewhere around two o'clock-if you know what I mean."

"Oh? You didn't sleep?"

"I couldn't sleep. Let's just say I had a bad night. And you know why, you little devil."

"Uh-huh. I ought to know. Sexy, sexy. Me too-how about that? I missed you. I wanted you the minute I woke up. That's why I left Rosalba and came hunting for-" Her train of thought snapped; she paused reflectively and then giggled. "Ooh, Fanchon, I just had an idea! Rosalba. Let's keep her here for a while. She can do the housework. And I can be lazy."