Chapter 2

Three o'clock on a Thursday after-noon in early July, Max Flagg looked out his office window. Bright sunlight made the buildings on the other side of Park Avenue South look almost brilliant. He wished he were out in that sunlight. Well, in twenty-six hours plus whatever time it took him to clear up the odds and ends on his desk, he would be on vacation.

Not quite on vacation. There was, of course, the matter of the Stanton contract.

Georgia came in carrying a sheaf of papers clipped to envelopes. She placed them on the desk before him.

"That's all of it, Max," she said. "If you'll sign it, I'll get it into the mail right away."

"Thanks, Georgia."

She was standing much too close to his chair, practically leaning over him. His shoulder brushed her waist as he moved forward to look over the correspondence.

He wondered if she knew about his troubles at home. Funny how people sometimes sensed those things. If things had been going well between him and Doris, he wouldn't have minded Georgia's provocative young beauty. Even her subtle little passes would have been pleasant, much as Max disapproved of affairs in the office. But, as things stood, Georgia was a disturbing influence, as were one or two others among the staff.

Georgia was the worst of them. Now, as he glanced over each letter and signed it, she propped a well-molded hip on the corner of his desk, twisted, and bent forward to watch what he was doing. Each time Max glanced up-and it was difficult to refrain from doing so-he got a clear view of the top of her bosom and the shadowed cleavage.

Was Georgia really turning on the pressure? Or was it his imagination, due to unsatisfied desires? Both, he decided. He'd bought her an after-work cocktail a couple of times, and the electric hand that had landed on his leg hadn't been innocent. More than once, Max had had an impulse to reach forward and plunge a hand to her neckline or skirt. What would she do if he were to touch her right now? Nothing, he decided. Gasp, look surprised, freeze; then melt in his hand. They'd leave, go to her apartment and undress.

He stirred uncomfortably in his chair. He had to avoid such thoughts, they excited him too much. But Georgia was making it difficult to avoid them. If he and Doris didn't make progress in the next few weeks, he might start propositioning Georgia.

He finished the correspondence.

"Anything more I can do for you?" Georgia asked, in a peculiar tone. "No, I think not."

"If you have any extra work before your vacation, I don't mind working late."

"I'll let you know."

"All right. Don't forget, now." She made it sound almost as if they had a conspiracy.

He watched the swaying motion of her hips as she left. No girdle, nothing but nylon. Nylon on a well-formed body.

Cut it out, Flagg. You'll drive yourself crazy.

The phone rang. It was Davidon, his boss, asking him to come over right away.

The old man was just one office away. "Sit down," he said. "This won't take long. I got a reply from Miss Stanton."

Max sat. "And?"

"She grudgingly says that naturally she'll be glad to see you."

"Grudgingly."

"Between the lines."

"Why not leave her alone. Davie? She's supposed to be such a sharpie and so independent; if she doesn't want to sign, she won't. And she's made it pretty clear how she feels about the matter."

"Several reasons." Davidon said with a smile that was superior and yet somehow not condescending. "For one thing, we're in business, and there's many a golden egg in that Stanton goose."

"But this kind of golden egg?"

Davidon nodded. "Even her textbooks are a pleasure to read-"

"But a popularization is a different thing. Even a fiction writer can often do a better job than a scientist."

"You may not know it, but under the name Lane Stanley Miss Stanton is a fiction writer. Her stuff is garbage but it's pretty good garbage, the latter-day Bronte sort of thing that's been doing so well lately. We don't know for sure, but there's also a rumor that she dashes off an occasional spicy epic for the paperback market, too."

Max shrugged. "Okay, she could do the job if she would. What other reason?"

"I'm retiring soon."

Max had expected it. but the blunt statement shook him. The implications were coming to his mind, even as Davidon spelled some of them out.

"You know how it's been since we combined with a general publisher, Max. They let me take over sales management for the works when my counterpart retired, but when it comes to the line of promotion, there's some suspicion that the experience of the assistant manager for tech publications is too narrow for the top job. Your rival is sitting just a few doors down the corridor, the assistant manager for general publications. I can see that in this outfit if he takes my job a precedent is likely to be established. And it's not beyond the bounds of possibility that you'll be bypassed and stuck in your assistant manager's cubbyhole for the next thirty or forty years. Unless you start hitting the agencies and reading the want ads in the Sunday Times. See what I mean?"

"I see." All too clearly, he might have advised.

"I'd hate to have that happen to you, Max. You deserve much better."

"And you figure that if I can bring home the bacon where our colleagues next door have failed-"

"With my backing, no guarantees, of course, you should be a shoo-in."

There was no question, then, that Max had to land the new Stanton contract. It was either that or, in all likelihood, pounding the pavement.

They spent the next thirty-five minutes going over the contract and discussing its various aspects. Max had a certain margin for bargaining should it prove necessary, and all in all the contract was quite liberal. Most teachers would have jumped at the opportunity to do such a job.

On returning to his own office, Max tried to remember everyone he had known at his alma mater. He made a mental note to dig out his class annuals. As a student, as a university press employee, and as a college book traveler he'd made a wide and varied acquaintance, but after all he'd been in New York for three years now, and his memory was by no means flawless.

He had to get that contract.

Trained in English, American, and two foreign literatures, he had nonetheless made a remarkable record in selling tech material. The result had been a fast promotion to the main office. For a short time he had feared that he'd been promoted from the work he did best to the position of glorified office boy, but he'd grabbed the reins of the new job and had made it important. Two of his best projects involved developing a mail order business for small colleges and interested laymen and setting up curricula based exclusively on company publications and getting the gaps filled in by new publications in such a manner that the programs were marvelously flexible.

Max Flagg, the bright young man who was going places at a gallop.

Max Flagg, the bright young man who was apt to gallop right against a brick wall.

Unless he hurdled it by getting the Stanton contract.

Georgia bustled in and out of his office a couple of times He silently damned her as a distraction.

At five minutes after five, Doris appeared at his door and he arose to greet her.

She was more attractive than ever, he thought, viewing the lightweight turquoise suit that matched her eyes. Her blonde hair was a shade lighter than taffy and her complexion had a healthy glow.

"You're beautiful," Max said, kissing her lightly. Amazing how the firm curves and hollows of her face could radiate coolness and warmth at the same time. He found the same quality in her eyes, in her shy, tentative smile.

"I love you," he said.

"Even after a long, hard day at the office?"

"Especially after a long, hard day." He looked at the two shopping bags Doris had brought in. "Spend all the money?" he asked.

"Not quite. But I tried."

"Good for you."

Right now he desired her. Sometimes her appearance was enough to kill desire, beautiful though she always was. He wondered, with a trace of guilt, if he was responding to her now because Gloria had excited him.

He decided to make it a special evening, and they took a taxi to Shine's Restaurant. There the dry Manhattans were excellent, as usual, and the roast beef was superb. The quiet richness of the establishment induced a feeling of ease and relaxation.

"It's settled," he said during the coffee and brandy. "I'll be going after the Stanton contract."

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't," she said. "I wanted this to be a real vacation. Nothing you had to do hanging over your head and sending your thoughts away from us."

"It's necessary, honey," he said, and as quickly and briefly as he could he outlined the situation for her.

"Then I suppose you'll be spending quite a lot of time with this Stanton woman."

"Possibly, but no more than necessary. And I'll promise you this. I won't have the job on my mind all the time. Furthermore, I'm entitled to take an extra day away from the office for every day I have to work on Dr. Stanton. Well, I'll take two extra days, honey. Double time for overtime."

Doris smiled, a touch of the imp on her glowing face. "Can't you get away with that?"

"Watch me."

"Now I feel better."

"So do I." He waited a moment, braced himself, tried to sound casual. "In fact I feel so good I'd like to celebrate. Why don't we hurry right home? Or why bother going home tonight, we can get a hotel room-"

"Oh, Max...." Doris's smile faded. "I don't have a thing with me-"

"Very well, well race for home."

"Max, I've been out shopping all day and I'm very tired and-"

"Just not up to celebrating." He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "I understand."

"I'm afraid that would go badly, and I want to be all rested for our vacation-"

"Sure, honey."

The silence between them had a dead quality.

Max tried to sound casual. "Look. Maybe it would be a good idea if I stayed in town tonight. I can get some work done at the office so that I won't have to stay late tomorrow night. Maybe I'll even be able to get away early tomorrow."

The dead silence remained.

"I wish you were coming home with me," Doris said at last. "Maybe I'll feel differently once I get home-"

"No, honey. I know how you are."

It was definitely the wrong thing to say. He watched Tloris shrink in her chair and he felt guilty as hell.

But it wasn't his fault, was it?

"Where'll you stay?" she asked in a small voice.

"I don't know. At a hotel. At the Johnsons', maybe. I may just sack out at the office."

"Will you phone me? And let me know where you are?"

"Certainly."

All the way to Penn Station their silences were dead and his attempts at pleasant conversation were strained.

He wondered if she knew. He wondered how much she knew.

Once he had put her on the Long Island train, he taxied back to the office. He would, as he had told her, get as much work out of the way as he could. There was no deceit in that.

He threw himself into the paperwork battle, trying to lose consciousness of all else, and for a time he succeeded. The first time he looked at his watch, it was after ten-thirty and he knew that Doris had long been home.

He phoned her.

"Doris? It's me, honey. I wanted to be sure you got home all right."

"Of course, I did, you silly. Where are you now?"

The question somehow surprised him. "At the office. I told you I was going back-"

"Where are you sleeping tonight?"

"Oh, God, I forgot! I haven't made any arrangements at all. I" may stay right here."

"Why don't you come home. Max? I miss you, darling."

He held his breath. Yes, why didn't he go home? Why not go home and hit his miserable bed and forget the troubles that took place in it?

He needed something more than sleep....

"I still have an awful lot to do darling, more than I had thought. I'll be here quite late-I'll miss the last train-"

"All right."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Max."

She sounded so weary, so unwittingly imploring, that he was tempted to change his mind and race for the station. But before he could say a word she had hung up.

Phone back?

No.

Well, he would stay here and work until after the last train. He could be at least that honest with her. But he had better phone Claire Johnson right now. "It's Max, Claire."

"Oh, hello, darling."

"Claire, I'm working late tonight. I'll be here for another hour and a half. May I stay with you tonight?"

There was a pause. Lately his life had seemed filled with pauses. Empty pauses, futile pauses, dead pauses.

"How convenient for you," Claire said, "to have a home away from home."

"I'm sorry, Claire. Please believe that I've never taken you for granted. If I seemed to at any time, I apologize ... Good night."

"Good night." They hung up together.

He tried to put the incident out of his mind and lose himself once again in his work, but it was difficult The trouble was a simple one. He needed a woman.

God, why was Doris that way? It wasn't that she lacked passion. If anything, her problem so diminished all the other factors in her life that at times she seemed obsessed-or possessed-by her passion. Yet she never quite reached the level where satisfaction came.

When she tried, she tried like hell. The result was that love-making ceased to be a pleasure as they worked at some pattern prescribed by the latest manual. The further result was that they both became angry in the midst of this pseudo lovemaking, damning one another for their clumsiness and ineptitude. The next result was that Doris was rendered a mass of screaming nerves and he was rendered totally impotent.

And finally, they were both reluctant to try any more sordid, loveless, degrading bedroom calesthenics.

He had found incentive again with Claire.

She was the wife of a company officer. They had separated but had not been divorced as yet, since neither had plans to remarry. Max had met her in the office, where she had once worked, and their mutual attraction had led to its biologically appropriate conclusion.

But Max still loved his wife and he hoped to God that she didn't know about Claire.

His physical need continued to distract him. He remembered Georgia's offer. Why hadn't he taken her up? If he could cheat on his wife, he could cheat on his mistress-especially since she had apparently cut him off.

Georgia would have been good. He imagined the two of them together. He'd give her a drink from the vodka bottle he kept in his desk drawer. They'd stand closer and closer together until it was inevitable that they touch. His arms would go around her, hers would take him They would kiss, slowly, testingly. They would grind together and look into one another's eyes, knowledge of what was going to happen fully revealed there. He would unbutton her blouse and unhook her brassiere. He would take a breast to hand and tease it. He would leave the breast to raise the front of her skirt. She would sigh, her eyes growing heavy-lidded. She would reach for him as she slid down her panties. She would back up to the arm of the heavily upholstered chair.

Then gently, slowly, wordlessly, he would take her, give her what she wanted....

He yanked open a desk drawer, pulled out the bottle, and broke the seal.

He had to stop thinking like this or he'd go crazy.

He gulped down a couple of ounces, put the bottle back and tackled his work again.

Should he risk making a fool of himself and call Georgia? Nonsense.

He struggled with work, he fought to keep working until midnight.

To hell with it. He'd get a room in a hotel where he was known, get drunk, soak his dammed trouble in alcohol and ice cubes. He put his papers away and filed the bottle in a desk drawer for further reference.

That was when the phone rang.

"Max?" It was Claire's voice.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry for the tone I took. I had no right. Why don't you come over?"

"I'd like to, Claire, but I don't want to be a damned nuisance-"

"Now, don't be that way. We're not children."

"I didn't mean it like that. I really would like to see you."

"The door will be unlocked. Come right in."

He left the office immediately. Taxis were hard to find in that part of town at that hour-the after-theatre crowd still had a lot of them sewed up-but he managed to get one after several blocks of looking. The subway would have been almost as fast.

The address was right off Fifth Avenue in the seventies. The glaringly lit elevator was deserted but for Max, and the apartment door was-as promised-unlocked, dangerous though such a practice was. Claire, no fool, had never given Max a key.

One light was on in the living room, another in the hall.

Max opened the bedroom door.

She was lying on the edge of the bed, moonlight streaming over her body, her face in shadows. Her cigarette glowed as she took a puff.

"Hello, darling," she said.

"Hello, Claire."

He quickly discarded his clothes, feeling her watching his every move. He walked over to her bedside. When she extended her cigarette, he took it, puffed on it, put it out.

Her hand reached out to touch his side. Warm blood rushed in response.

"God, you're beautiful," she said. "Kiss me."

He sat down beside her and kissed her. Her lips seemed to thicken at his touch.

He moved his kiss down, seeking out those places he knew to be particularly vulnerable-the nipples, the undersides of her breasts, her waist. When she rolled away from him, he kissed the small of her back and explored farther.

She rolled back toward him, aflame, and he continued to fondle lovingly every part of her flesh, all her most responsive places, while she reached for him, gave him soft kisses.

"Not too much," she said, her voice taut. "I want this to last a little...."

It was the signal, he knew, to take her, and he moved to her. She gasped, they fumbled, he found her.

For a time they lay together quietly.

"Good?" she asked, the first to break the silence.

"Good."

"Send me, darling."

He worked deftly in a surge of exquisite mutual pleasure that made Claire moan.

His hand clasped a breast. His lips went to hers.

Sensation heightened with each moment, narrowing consciousness. The frustrations of the days, the weeks, fell away.

He tried to contain himself for Claire's sake. But he could not. Muscles contracted spactically. "I've got to!" he heard himself say, and then he finished, pitching, driving, and she was crying out and matching him for the ultimate moment.

The moment slowed, subsided, ceased.

He rolled away from her.

"Sorry that was so fast," he said.

"That's all right. You needed that even more than I did, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Poor Maxie."

After a cigarette and a trip to the bathroom, he decided it was time to make another phone call. There was a bedside phone, but somehow he hated to use it. He went to the front hall and dialed.

"Doris? It's Max."

"Yes, dear?"

"I'm sorry-did I wake you up?"

"No ... I couldn't sleep."

"I thought I'd better let you know where I was. I'm at the Johnsons'."

It took her a moment to answer. "All right."

"Everything okay?"

"Oh, yes."

"Try to get some sleep, Doris."

"I'll take a drink, some aspirin, read for a while."

"See you tomorrow."

"I love you."

Now it took him a moment to answer. "And I love you, dear ... Good night, now."

"Good night, Max." Feeling vaguely sick, he hung up. When Max returned to the bedroom, one light had been turned on, and Claire was coming out of the bathroom. She had put on a white cotton shortie nightie.

A hell of a good looking woman, he noted for the hundredth time: a good figure, a blaze of red hair, top and bottom, a strikingly handsome face-to say the least. He guessed her to be in her mid-or late thirties, and she was the type of female who would be physically attractive for at least another fifteen years.

He followed her into the kitchen, where she made smoked salmon and creamed cheese sandwiches, and they had milk, then coffee. They gossiped about the office and talked about the shows they had seen recently, and, in spite of his phone call to Doris, Max felt relaxed and at ease.

Why, he wondered, couldn't nights with Doris be like this?

He followed Claire back to the bedroom. She sat on the bed, pulling her legs up under her.

"We have some special talking to do," she said with a slight smile.

He sat down beside her. "What's special?"

"You're starting a long vacation on Saturday, aren't you?"

He nodded, wondering what she was building up to. "I'll be gone at least a month."

"I'll miss you. But perhaps it's just as well. There's no future for us, is there?" It was more a statement than a question.

"What are you driving at, Claire?"

She smiled sadly. "Once I thought there might be a future for us. I'm not so much older than you and we get along beautifully. But I'm afraid there's one hitch ... Are you still in love with your wife, Max?"

"Sometimes I think so."

She gave him a quick glance, looked away, and nodded. "No future."

"Are you trying to tell me it's all over between us?"

"Oh no. Not exactly. But I do think we should allow more possibilities for the future than there are right now."

"I don't follow you."

"Put it this way. During" your vacation, I think you should make a concerted effort to square things with your wife. And whether you succeed or not after you return to New York it would be well if you didn't call me for a long long time. That way perhaps you and Doris will have a better chance-"

"I'm not so sure-"

"And I'll have a better chance too. You're a lovely man, Max, but I don't want to spend the rest of my days as your mistress."

She laid it on the line and said nothing with which he could argue. He felt at once relieved and set miserably adrift. He was relieved because his affair with Claire had made him feel guilty-guilty for betraying Doris and for not bending all his energies to helping her. He felt set adrift because his affair with Claire had helped cure the virtual loss of ego he had suffered from his relationship with Doris. Now he would no longer have Claire to lean on. He would be thrown back on his own resources.

Claire laughed softly and leaned forward against him. "Don't look so grim darlihg. Who knows what the future may bring? And there's always tonight."

He took her into his arms and kissed her.

Yes, there was always tonight.

But this would be the last night. Claire was right, of course: there had to be an end to cheating and lies and deceit. They couldn't go on forever this way. He had to make a true and complete marriage with Doris-or break with her for good and try to make a new life with someone else. Hereafter there would be no half-life, no half-marriage. He would sleep with no woman other than Doris.

But there was always tonight.

He kissed her harder, caressing her bosom through the short gown. As she raised its bottom edge, he reached beneath it, caressed her, found her breast. She pulled the gown to her neck and crushed herself luxuriously against his chest.

She pulled her arms from the gown so that it hung from her neck and over one shoulder. Their arms tangled as they sat on the bed, and they moved closer together.

They loved one another with teasing, feather touches and torrid kisses, and nothing was barred as they made their flesh sing at an even higher pitch. They kissed and caressed and nibbled at every part of one another, losing themselves completely, forgetting the fear and danger and violence of the rest of the world.

For a while at least they had what all lovers should have.

Finally, she leaned back on her elbows, and issued an urgent invitation.

He responded, and this time everything was slow and generous and good.

As good as the next time.

But morning came at last, and Max left.

Tonight wasn't always, after all.