Chapter 6

Fred Markell fell easily into the pleasant habit of seeing Anita twice a week. It became a regular part of his routine of work.

He phoned her answering service on the Monday after her first session with him, and when she called back later in the afternoon he said, "I'd like to see you again on Tuesday, Anita."

"Sure. What time?"

"How about four in the afternoon?"

"Sorry. Can't do."

She explained to him that she never saw anybody professionally before seven in the evening. Her usual working hours, she said, were from seven to about two or three in the morning, unless she had some special job. "That's the way it is, Freddy. I'm sorry, but-"

But he wheedled her and cajoled her, and told her how beautiful she was, and finally got her to agree to make an exception in his case. The clincher came when he told her that he wanted to make her a regular twice a week habit. The idea appealed to a security-loving girl like Anita, and so it was all arranged.

Every Tuesday he would go to her apartment at four in the afternoon.

And every Friday, he would see her at eight in the evening, at a hotel room he rented for purpose not far from his office.

It worked out. When Tuesday came around, he would tell his staff that he had to leave early, and he would clear out by quarter to four. No one questioned him, of course, since he was the boss. He would hotfoot it up to Anita's apartment, in a chic luxury apartment house in the East Sixties, and she would be waiting for him. Since she usually woke around half past two in the afternoon, she was fresh from her breakfast when he arrived. She was generally wandering around the apartment in the nude, which made things all the more convenient. They would grapple and he would take his pleasure from her panting, full-breasted young body, and two tens and a five would change hands, and he would make his way down to Grand Central Station for the commuter special a little after five, with a glow of secret satisfaction lighting up his face.

Fridays worked out just as well. "I've got to work late," he would tell Janet, and Janet would nod and say, "Of course, dear," and that would be that. He would have dinner alone, in a small spaghetti house next door to the hotel, and by eight o'clock he would be in the room when she arrived, and she would show up, scented and lovely and always wearing something different, and he would lovingly peel away layer after layer of clothes until a naked Anita gambolled in his arms, breast-tips stiffening and buttocks aquiver, and they would tumble together to the bed and her body would arch delicately and receive his eager body, and off they would go to joy land.

They stayed together till nine, sometimes half past nine, and then he went home to Janet.

Janet didn't seem to mind. In fact, she seemed definitely delighted that the nasty subject of sex hardly ever appeared to come under discussion at home any more. Occasionally, simply for the sake of keeping up appearances, Markell would make love to his cold, unwilling wife, usually on a weekend when Anita was far away in distant Manhattan.

But most of the time Markell just left Janet alone. Anita gave him more than ample satisfaction.

Markell wasn't sure just exactly when he conceived the idea of asking Anita to marry him. Perhaps it was the third week, perhaps it was the fourth, of their steady relationship. The idea didn't spring full-blown into his head, of course. Few ideas of that sort ever do. It crept stealthily out of his unconscious, until finally it possessed him completely, became an obsession.

At first glance the idea seemed ridiculous, preposterous, even disgusting.

Marry a call girl?

What man in his right mind would do such a grotesque thing?

But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made to him.

For one thing, she was dazzlingly beautiful. No argument on that score.

For another, she was sexually talented. He had had ample proof of that. She was a dream in bed, capable of meeting his every need.

For a third thing, she was absurdly young, only twenty, half his age. She would remain beautiful for the remaining twenty or twenty-five years of his active life-forever youthful, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. If, later on, he couldn't satisfy her and she wanted to take lovers on the side, he wouldn't mind that, he told himself. At least he would have had her all to himself for many years, and in old age he could be charitable and share the pleasures with others.

On the other hand, there was the drawback that she had slept with scores of men, and scores of scores. Markell considered that.

Did it really matter, he wondered?

Nobody was a virgin any more, at least nobody that got married past the age of sixteen or so. Janet had had four or five lovers before he had married her, and he hadn't cared about that. So where did you draw the line? If you were willing to marry a woman who had slept with four men, why not marry one who had slept with four hundred? Both had slept around. Was there any real difference?

Yes, there was. Because the one who had slept with four hundred meji would be vastly more knowledgeable, vastly more experienced. She could be endlessly fresh, endlessly challenging in bed.

Sure. Unless you were very moralistic, and Markell didn't consider himself a prude, it made more sense to marry an expert in the art of love than it did to marry an inhibited, inexperienced girl who had happened to have a few awkward and abortive sex affairs.

Of course, he told himself, it would be inconvenient and embarrassing if people found out about her past. He didn't care, but others might.

That was the one tricky factor here.

He didn't know how many of his friends and business associates had slept with Anita. Jack Donovan, for certain. Others, quite possibly. Donovan was given to passing his favorite phone numbers around to his chums. A lot of eyebrows might get raised if Markell announced his engagement to a girl everybody in New York City had been to bed with. He didn't want to set tongues wagging. He didn't want to be the subject of perpetual gossip. He didn't want people to say, when he entered a posh restaurant with Anita, "She used to be a call girl before he married her."

And then, too, there was one other little consideration to take in mind, before he took Anita to the altar.

He already had a wife.

There was the troublesome problem of what to do with Janet.

Janet Markell stood by the leaded window of the living room of her elegant Tudor mansion, staring impatiently out at the street. She was waiting for her lover to arrive.

The phrase made her feel warm and excited and terribly sinful. I am waiting for my lover. Jack Donovan, my lover.

She let the idea roll around in her head for a while. The affair had been going on almost a month, now, and she still wasn't used to the idea that she had a lover. That she was once again a passionate, normal woman who could take pleasure from sex. It had been so long, so terribly long.

But now life and vigor was returning. Jack had helped her rediscover her own womanhood. She still didn't enjoy making love to Fred-guilt held her back, she thought-but when she was in Donovan's arms, she was quivering with voluptuous sensations all the time.

She stared out the window. Where was he? He was fifteen minutes late already.

Janet wondered whether Fred suspected. Certainly there had been a change in her lately; she was less tense, far less jumpy and irritable. Did Fred know what had brought about the change? Did he suspect she had a lover?

Somehow, Janet doubted it. He was too wrapped up in himself to care, she felt. He was still seeing that girl, that tramp, according to Donovan, and he was probably so enmeshed in his romance with her that he wasn't capable of noticing what was taking place in his own home, right under his nose, between his wife and his oldest friend.

Good, Janet thought. Let him keep on not noticing anything. I'm having the time oj my life, and I don't want it to stop.

She saw the familiar two-toned Lincoln pulling into the driveway. At last! Donovan had arrived!

Janet felt her pulse quicken. Hastily, she ran to the front door, getting there the very moment that Donovan thumbed the chime.

She threw it open.

"Jack! Jack, darling !"

An instant later she was in his arms. His powerful arms gripped her tight, and her heart fluttered wildly as she pressed her warm, eager body against his. The chill of the November day seeped into her, through the thin wrap that was her single garment.

He released her and shucked his coat.

"You're late," she said softly. "I was so worried. I thought something might have happened."

"Everything's okay. There was a little red tape at the office, that's all."

"Did you eat?"

Donovan nodded. "I had a snack before T came out." He grinned at her. "God, you look beautiful tonight! You've got a glow about you, Jan."

She giggled girlishly. "You know what? I weighed myself a little while ago. I've gained six pounds this month. Because of you."

"Because of me?"

"Sure. You've started life flowing in me again. I'm ripening-filling out-"

He let his hands rest for a moment on the soft mounds of her breasts, cupping them, caressing them through the wrap. With a smile, he said, "I thought you were getting a little bigger in the uppers. But I figured maybe it was just my imagination."

"No. It's real. All my bras are tight. I'll have to buy some new ones."

Donovan's eyes twinkled. "Maybe you're pregnant."

"That was a cruel thing to say. You shouldn't joke about that."

"I wasn't joking. I thought, maybe-"

Janet shook her head. "No. It's permanent and it's final, and I don't want to talk about it or even to think about it. Hold me, Jack. Just hold me and don't say anything, and kiss me, and-"

His arms engulfed her again. His heavy body strained tautly against hers. Janet pressed tight, grinding her breasts and thighs against him, trying almost to merge her body with his.

After a moment they parted. He settled down on the couch, while she prepared drinks for them. It was a regular ritual for them, just as she made a ritual, after he had left, of washing the glasses and emptying the ashtrays before Fred came home.

As they sipped the drinks, Donovan said, "Fred's working late again tonight?"

"That's what he told me,"

"Working like a galley slave, I bet."

"Probably." Janet stared at Donovan. "What kind of girl is this Anita? How well do you know her?"

"Well enough. I've been to bed with her a few times, though not since I started with you."

"What's she like?"

"Young. Very pretty. Good head on her shoulders. Big boobs."

"Like udders, I suppose?"

"No," Donovan said. "Big and round and hard. They don't dangle. She's a beautiful girl."

"More beautiful than I am?" Janet asked slyly.

"It's a different kind of beauty." Donovan said. "She's younger, and she's blonde. It's the difference between-well, between a daffodil and an orchid There's a kind of innocence about her, and a kind of worldliness about you-a different fascination-"

Janet laughed. "A tramp with innocence about her, and a frigid housewife who's worldly? Sounds like you've got everything all mixed up."

"I can't get the point across, I guess. But I know what I mean."

"I'm sure you do. And how is she in bed?"

"She's a pro," Donovan said.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that she always gives a good show Whether she feels anything inside or not, she makes it look like she's having a ball. I imagine she's secretly a Lesbian Most of those girls are. But they hide it well."

Janet shuddered. "Sounds sordid. To think of Fred mixed up with a girl like that-"

"Jealous?"

"Just annoyed," Janet said. "Annoyed at myself, mostly. It reflects on a woman when she can't keep her own husband interested in her."

"Fred's a fool," Donovan said. "He doesn't know what's good for him."

"No. It's more complicated than that. What happened to our marriage happened on both sides. We-fell out of love with each other. I don't blame him for sleeping with his blonde tramp. She makes him happy, even if it's all fake. So long as he can't tell the difference, I've got no right to be jealous. Not while I've got you."

"Do I make you happy?"

Janet's eyes were slits of lust, and her voice a husky, throaty whisper. "Happier than I've ever been in my life," she said. With a sinuous shrugging motion she let her wrap fall to the floor, and stood nude before him. Her body took on a warmth, a radiant glow, as his eyes roamed it. Janet filled her lungs with air. Her breasts had grown, now that she had finally came into her own as a woman; she had gained weight, had filled out, had an extra reserve of stamina now. She was changing, and Jack Donovan had changed her, she knew. He had awakened the womanhood of her.

She went toward him.

She began to take off his clothes.

It was funny, she thought, how different her life had been, since she had first gone to bed with Donovan. For years and years he had just been Jack, Fred's friend, an amiable, slightly boozy, slightly overweight guy with too much money and too much interest in sex, who had been looking hungrily at Janet without ever making a pass. And now, suddenly, he was transformed. He no longer seemed the clown, the skirt-chaser that he had been. He was Pan, he was a demon of love, he was her guide to a myriad new worlds of pleasure, worlds she had long ago abandoned all hope of entering.

They were both nude, now. He drew her down next to him on the couch. His body was pressed against hers. His hands roamed her, caressing her breasts, passing along her thighs and legs.

"Have you told your analyst about me?" he asked.

"Of course."

"What does he say? Is he shocked?"

"You can't possibly shock an analyst. Nothing you say can shock him."

"What does he say, then?"

"He thinks it's fine that I respond to you physically. Now he wants me to try to transfer my erotic attachment from you back to Fred."

"That's an easy order to give."

"I told him that."

"Do you want to transfer back to Fred?"

"I want you," Janet said.

"What does your analyst say about that?"

"He doesn't. He thinks it's infantile of me to want a lover, but that as short-range therapeutics it's a good idea, since it's liberating my libido."

"You know what I think of your analyst?"

"What?"

"I think his libido needs liberating."

"So do I."

"Ever feel like doing it?"

"He doesn't attract me."

"I thought all women patients were supposed to fall in love with their analysts," Donovan said.

"Well, not me. For a while I was interested, but then my attention got distracted."

"I wonder who did that?"

"I wonder."

"How much do you pay this analyst?"

"$30 a session," Janet said. "$60 a week." Donovan whistled. "Just for talking?"

"That's right."

"Hell," he said. "I can give you better therapy than he does, and I don't even charge for it."

"So far you've just been doing a lot of talking."

"Just preliminaries, m'dear. I'm ready to begin the therapy now. Are you?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"Okay. Tell me what it feels like when I put my hand here."

"Mm."

"And here?"

"Mmm!"

"And there?"

"Mmmm!"

"And when I do this?"

"It makes me want to do this," Janet said. "Go on, then. Don't repress an impulse. Liberate your libido, kiddo. Liberate it!"

"That's just what I'm doing!" Janet moaned.