Chapter 2
Post lay in bed smoking a cigarette, remembering how uncomfortable he'd felt talking to Joe Prantis while Ethel and June were cleaning.
The young couple were quickly showing signs of becoming close, valuable friends and Ethel had made no bones about her intentions of staying after the other guests had left to help clean up. Joe had meant it, too. After the offer had been made, Post caught the flash of a significant glance from June, meaning she knew the Prantis' wanted to be close friends.
It was another part of the subterfuge and now, in the light of his sudden awareness of June, Stu felt cheap about it.
He mashed out his cigarette and cradled his head in his hands, staring at the ceiling, wishing he'd turned out the lights, wishing he did not have to look at June as she came out of her habitual shower before retiring.
She wore a light, three-quarter length cotton robe over her favorite sleeping costume, a sheer, formless blouse and panties. So with her high-heeled mules, June's legs showed clearly just below her knees. Her hair was down, tied at the nape of the neck with a tiny ribbon. She was more than attractive, Post thought, she was desirable. She was supposed to be his wife, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do about it except lie here in the same room with her, not more than three feet away, for another three hundred and fifty-eight days.
June moved into the room with animation, sat on the side of the bed that was closest to Post and took one of his Camels from the nightstand.
"This was very good," she said. "We've accomplished a lot."
"It wasn't bad," Post said.
"You were sure the funny one, though. I mean, you can carry the jealous husband routine a bit too far and it might frighten away the Prantises. I wouldn't want to do that. I think they're just perfect for our closest friends. They're both very observant, very quick, very intelligent. I think we can pick up a lot of data from them."
"What kind of scent are you wearing?" Post asked.
"The same as always, Blue Grass. What a funny thing to notice."
"I don't think it's so funny."
"Why, Stu, you've got a crush on me."
"Jesus Christ, June," he said.
"Now it makes sense. You actually were jealous of Lyle Windover."
"Cut it out, June."
"Look, Stu, we've got a whole year of this. You knew what you were in for when you started it. There's too much at stake for you to go spoiling it now."
"Nuts," Post said. He turned on his side, showing June his back. He heard the rustle of her gown being removed and tossed at the foot of the bed. He was tempted to turn over, but he knew the sight of her in that flimsy sleeping costume would only add to the fire. He lay there stiffly, waiting until she turned out the light.
"Good night, Stu," she said.
"Good night," he said. He could see the coal of her cigarette, glowing in the darkness. He realized he was hungry for a cigarette. He lit one of his own.
"One more thing," June said. "We should have invited the Morganroths."
"How come?"
"She's eight and a half months pregnant."
"So? You've seen pregnant women before."
"You don't understand, Stu. Pregnant women aren't supposed to have intercourse for six weeks before delivery date and six weeks after. Ralph Morganroth is probably on his way to becoming a classic case of a male with a pair of antlers."
"I see," Stu said with sarcasm. "And you want to see if he'll be faithful."
"It's a good thought," June said. "I'll sort of see what I can discover. And you might try to find out who the vixen of the block is, you know, the one who waters the lawn wearing tight shorts and a haltsr the size of a band-aid."
"I'll take care of it first thing in the morning," he said.
June began laughing.
"What's so funny?" Post asked.
"I know why you're grousing. I didn't kiss you good-night." She made a smacking sound with her lips. "Good night from your little wife on Coolaire Heights."
"Nuts!" Post said. By the time he finished his cigarette, he could hear June's breath coming in regular cadence.
Post didn't know why he'd been picked for the job. Several people at the Institute had congratulated him on being chosen and had made the simple comment that he could be trusted to do a good job. He wasn't sure if that part about being trusted meant he'd leave June alone. What it boiled down to was being asked to live with June for a year, pretending he was her husband. It was being asked to make passes at some of the Coolaire Heights women if he got the chance, and make careful notes of their reactions. Nothing was said about following through. As far as the Institute was concerned, Post could touch the merchandise, pinch it to see if it was ripe, but no samples. Nothing like that for a year.
He was tall, an inch over six feet. His curly brown hair had a boyish unruliness about it when it was cut short. His background in sociology and adult counseling for the Institute were probably factors in choosing him for the job.
"We're going to make some extensive tests on suburban and housing tract living, Stu," Dr. Prique had said. "And we want to go into this as completely as possible, turn out something that would make the Stanford Research Institute jealous. We want moral implications, social pressures, group patterns, religious influences, financial pressures, the whole works. We've found the ideal spot. The place is Coolaire Heights. Most of the people are young, you'll fit in easily."
It had been that simple. A large cash stipend to the Institute from an unknown donor had made the study a reality instead of a dream.
June Harlon was to be his "wife." The real estate agent had actually believed he was selling a house to Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Arthur Post.
"You realize," Dr. Prique had told him, that there are no days off on this assignment. You'll earn a bonus and a handsome vacation when it's over, but the entire success of the study depends on your ability to convince the people of Coolaire Heights that you and June are man and wife.
In the beginning, the survey seemed like a real chance, a real challenge. He'd seen June Harlon about the Institute a few times and had even talked to her on occasion at some of the monthly staff teas. She was pleasant, if a little too stuffy and dedicated to objective detail. She could talk about a problem of sexual adjustment involving some of the Institute's patients about as calmly as he, Post, would discuss his hair cut.
But a week of living in Coolaire Heights with June, playing the game that they were man and wife, was beginning to have a not so subtle effect on her. She was slowly, surely becoming a warmer person, particularly when she was puttering in the kitchen.
And that black dress! Post knew she'd chosen it with her same feeling for objective detail. And she'd worn it at the party not out of any particular desire to please, but out of that same objective conviction that men, and particularly men at parties, liked to see a woman with an attractive bust.
Thinking about it Post had a difficult time getting to sleep and when he did, he dreamt.
He dreamt about the scene he'd spied on earlier in the evening. But in his dream he was the man in the apartment, not outside crouched in the shrubbery. The dream began with him knocking on the door. He must have had a date with her, something like that. In his hand he was carrying a large bunch of calla lillies. It seemed quite natural that he should be completely naked. He wasn't wearing anything but the lillies, and still he wasn't a bit embarrassed when she opened the door.
The woman, however, wasn't naked. She was wearing a black, shantung dress. It was tight across the breasts and tight across the buttocks but it reached from her neck to the floor and had long, tight sleeves.
As soon as she had the door open, she was in his arms kissing him passionately, her long, wet tongue flicking in and out of his open mouth. Urgently she drew him to the sofa and, lying down on it, made room for him to sit beside her. When he gave his hands over to the luxury of her breasts, she nodded her assent, and reaching for his naked manhood, indicated that she wanted this encounter to go beyond petting.
Post found himself most eager to oblige her. There were, though, problems. First, he didn't know her name and he felt awkward about making love to a nameless woman. Even in the dream he wondered how it was that she had no name. Desperately he sought for it. Secondly, the dress had no opening. Even more desperately his fingers searched for buttons at the neck of her gown or a zipper on the side. Nothing.
The woman grew desperate, too. She demanded that he make love to her. She berated him for teasing her this way. He could do nothing.
He gave vent to his frustration in violent and, probably to her, painful kneading of her breasts. All at once he knew. "Why you're June," he cried.
Her clothes melted away at his words and for a frantic moment his hands were all over her body. Ha could hear her voice, low and husky in his ear, murmuring, "Yes, Stu. More, more."
She guided his hands to the delta between her thighs. She was soft and velvety and warm and he could see ripples of pleasure pass across her skin as he touched her.
Suddenly they were together and the fast paced friction of love had him gasping for breath. In his dream June was no passive participant. She was eager. She was athletic. She saw to it that the physical demands of their enjoyment were no greater on him than on her.
"Let me, for a while, darling," she said. "I want you to feel it as much as I do." She needn't have worried. A wild exuburance flushed his body. Every movement they made, even the times they rested and were still, had him throbbing with pleasure.
Towering above her as he was, he felt strong and very sure of himself. Her black hair was splayed over the cushions on the couch. Her eyes were dilated and staring. He knew she was on the top of the rollercoaster ready to plunge down into release. He stopped the satisfaction he was giving her.
"Stu, don't stop."
"But I have stopped," he said, looking down at her sardonically.
"You mustn't tease me this way. I can't stand it."
"You've been teasing me. I did horrible things because you teased me."
"No more. I promise. I'll do anything you say. Anything, anything."
He began a slow rhythm of his thighs, like a dray horse in action and, like a dray horse, was soon in a hard pounding motion that carried them up the cliff of pleasure and then they were falling, falling. The last thing he knew was her scream in his ear.
The scream became the shrilling of the alarm clock and Stu discovered to his chagrin that he was glad they had decided he should make his own bed.
Breakfast was perfect. When the alarm went off, Stu fought away the cobwebs of a sleep that had come too late to do much good. He smelled the odor of perking coffee that June liked to grind fresh, each morning. He showered and shaved, noting how efficient she was about keeping a good supply of towels handy.
He estimated the temperature was in the high sixties, so he wore a drip-dry suit that had been he noticed, freshly pressed.
His first sight of her added to last night's frustration. She wore a simple cotton dress. But now that he was so aware of her, he found himself admiring the slight tilt of her breasts and the fresh alertness of her face. "Morning," she said, handing him a glass of juice.
"I see you're noticing the dress," June said, handing him a piece of buttered toast. "I noticed most of the women put on some kind of dress or slacks to give their husbands breakfast in. I think that's an interesting indication of this income bracket, don't you?"
Post wasn't thinking about income brackets at the moment. He was thinking about the prospects of a year of going to bed with a strong awareness of June, then seeing her like this in the mornings.
"Have you noticed any pressures yet?" June asked him.
Post choked on a bite of egg. He surely had. But not the kind June meant. The only pressure he'd noticed was his regard for her. Something was going to give.
"The only thing I noticed so far is that everyone thinks they should have a rock garden in their back yard. Lyle Windover had one put in last week. What say, we hold out until someone makes a comment?"
"Good idea."
"And one other thing. I had a chat with Joan Hart. She and Humphrey have sex relations about three times a week, which I suspect is about average around here, although Lyle Windover goes slightly overboard. Gail claims he'll go on binges; every night for two weeks, then a week to rest up. Gail usually appears most tired when Lyle is on the move."
"You're being careful about that, aren't you?" Post asked.
"Of course," June replied dryly. "You'd think I didn't know how to lead a conversation."
The doorbell rang. June got up to answer it, and when she came back Francesca Abblebaum was with her. "Dear," June said, "you take the Hollywood Freeway to work, don't you?"
Post nodded.
"Francesca wondered if you'd mind giving her a ride into town."
Post felt a stirring of apprehension. It would be a perfect opportunity to have a chat, perhaps to get some more information. But still, he felt uneasy. Perhaps, he thought, it was Francesca's exotic attractiveness, which was just as much in evidence this morning as it had been last night. Francesca wore a cool summer suit with a small jacket that covered her shoulders. The neckline took an abrupt plunge. The skirt was the new style, cut short to show off her handsome legs. Her wrists had several bracelets, but the effect was not gaudy.
"I'd be very happy to give you a ride," Post said. "I'll be leaving in just a moment."
He used Francesca's presence to accomplish something that was eminently on his mind. As they strolled to the back door, Post went into the garage to turn on the motor of the Falcon. Then he came back inside the house for his briefcase and to escort Francesca.
"Bye, dear," June said, pecking him lightly on the cheek. "Any preferences for dinner?"
"We can finish the roast," he said. Then he smiled at her. "What kind of a good-bye kiss is that?"
June looked surprised for a moment, but Post put both hands on her shoulders and pressed his lips firmly against hers. Her lips tasted good, better than he's ever known them to be. A pang of desire went through him as he felt her breasts burrow into his chest.
"And that," June said to Francesca, when she and Post had parted, "is what happens when you give a man too much meat for breakfast."
It was a neat parry. But as he left with Francesca, Post could see June watching him with a curious interest.
The traffic was not too bad that early in the morning until they reached the intersection of Sepulveda and Ventura. Francesca wanted the Western section of Hollywood, where her car was being painted, so he stayed on Ventura until he reached Laurel Canyon.
He was feeling pleased with himself for having kissed June so effectively. Perhaps she'd get the message or perhaps he'd have to make a more insistant campaign, but he knew he was going to do something. The kiss had convinced him.
Francesca Applebaum promptly broke his bubble of happiness. "I noticed it last night and I still see signs of it," she said.
"Of what, Francesca?"
"Something is bothering you. You have a very attractive wife, but there is something wrong."
Post's grip on the steering wheel tightened. Was Francesca sharp enough to notice something?
"Perhaps it's financial pressure," she said. "Perhaps you didn't think you were quite ready to take on something as costly as a home in Coolaire Heights."
Post felt better. Francesca's suspicions of trouble did not include the possibility that he and June were not married.
"No," he said, taking into account the prearranged patter about his work, "I'm pretty lucky, making a salary as big as I do, and since there are so many commissions coming in, it was my idea that we invest in something substantial, like property."
"Then it must be something else, perhaps something personal. I could see it in the way you kissed June. Is it this, Stu? Is it that she's beautiful and warm on the outside and cold on the inside? I hope, for your sake, that this isn't so. But the way you kissed her was pathetic."
"Pathetic, why?"
"You seemed so hungry. A man marries for love and because he can assume the responsibility of the relationship. If he does not have enough love...." her voice trailed off.
There was a moment of uneasy silence. The flow of air steam into the car lifted at Francesca's skirts, causing it to flutter about her knees, revealing even more of her attractive legs, sheathed in cinnamon colored stockings. She caught Post admiring them and smiled, making no effort to hold down the fluttering material. "I think it's ironic," she said. "Ted liked you immediately. He's usually quite jealous, but a few things have happened to change that. You see, he's never been to Europe and he has stronge notions about European women. I have finally convinced him that I am glad I married him and that I want to stay with him. This is important to him. Also important is the fact that I told him how much I wanted to have a child by him."
Post lit two cigarettes with the dash lighter and handed on to Francesca. Her frankness was disarming on a personal level, but on a professional level, he appreciated it. He could really learn something from her since he didn't believe she was the type to say things for shock value.
"You asked me last night," Francesca continued calmly, "if I would have an affair. For some reason. I spent a good deal of time thinking about it lact night. Ordinarily, I would have said no without thinking. Things are so different in America. But then, as I say, I had much to think about. I thought of you, for instance."
"Me," Stu said. "Why me?"
"Because. Stu, if I were to have an affair, it would be with a man like you."
"Thanks for the compliment."
"The thing you don't know is this: I am in a perfect position to have an affair; short, intense, and to the point. It will have to stop out of necessity, after a time, and it will not resume again."
"Why will it stop out of necessity?" Stu asked, becoming curious.
"Because, Stu, I discovered last week that I am going to have a baby. So you see, it is perfect. There is no chance of the worst possible thing happening, and soon, the affair will stop for rather obvious reasons; and the beauty of it is that Ted cannot possibly suspect unless we are completely foolish and without tact."
This took Post by surprise. Francesca was an attractive woman, all right, but he had not expected this. "You sound pretty sure it's going to happen. I mean, by the tenses you use, you seem pretty sure of yourself."
"Am I not attractive to you, Stu? I know you've been looking at me. I know you were interested in me last night. Very well, I find you attractive, too. What possible harm can there be from this? It can only do good. You will have your satisfaction and substance from it; it might well help your relations with June. I will have the pleasure of knowing the tenderness of someone I like very much. There is no danger, Stu, because there is no love. You will see; when it is over, we will become very close, very good friends. And don't try to tell me you are the type who thinks a man can only have other men for friends."
"Why no, but...."
"I'll tell you what, Stu. I have to pick up the car, visit the bank and do some shopping. Also, there is the doctor to see. How much time do you get for lunch, an houv?"
"As long as I please, if it's within reason."
"Fine," she said. "I will be having lunch at Diamond Jim's in Hollywood. I will be there at twelve-thirty. I will go with you to a motel."
She did not ask whether he would be there. This was something Stu liked about her immediately. Maneuvering over Laurel Canyon, he glanced at her occasionally, noticing the fine sheen of her legs, as a gust of wind took the skirt even further up her thighs, this time actually revealing the tops of her stockings as they clamped to her garters. Even these were unique. The tops of Francesca's stockings were embroidered with small flowers. The taut, firm flesh of her thighs was inviting. The rhythm of her breathing excited him as he watched her breasts rise and fall in graceful waves. He could not help imagining what it would be like to have her. It had been a long time since he had had a woman. He'd always managed to submerge the times when there was desire and no one available by furious spurts of work or reading.
But June had more than awakened desire in him, there was no question about that, and here was a woman, a very attractive woman, offering herself as an answer. There were no strings attached, nothing to fear. All Francesca wanted in return was tenderness and friendship.
Post felt himself beginning to perspire and this was not, he knew, from heat.
She wanted off at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and La Cienega. He timed it so that he would miss the signal, then he reached across to open the door for her. The scent she wore was subtle and spicy, reminding him somehow of apples. When she spoke, he could feel her breath on his ear. It was almost a whisper. "Until soon," she said, and then she was out of the car.
He watched her walk across the street. She moved with a well timed strut that had her breasts in motion, her buttocks moving slightly. It was suggestive without being vulgar.
There was no questioning the fact that Francesca Abblebaum was a very attractive woman. You did not get such uncomplicated offers from a woman like that every day, Post thought, if at all. He had a quick image of her smooth, tanned thighs again, under the silken sheen of her stockings. He thought of how it would be to caress them at leisure. And the breasts ... and the way she walked....
The horn of the car behind Post sounded impatiently, shattering his vision, but even then Post noticed he was sweating.
He had coffee and a brief chat with Dr. Prique. They discussed some of the observations June had made at breakfast. The doctor congratulated Post on the way things were going. "And just to keep them that way, Stu," Dr. Prique said, "I think we ought to have a few brochures printed with your name on the front page. Something to show your closer friends when they ask what kind of public relations copy you write. And it might be a good idea to drop in on a few of them at their jobs. Offer to take them out to lunch. Tell them it's on the expense account. That's something else I'm interested in, padding of expense accounts. See if you can get some leads on just how far they'll go. If they see you doing it, they might want to reciprocate. A few martinis to get them talking, a confidential tone of voice from you, and who knows what you might come up with.
Stu nodded. "I already have a lunch date with my next door neighbor, Don Oakland, for tomorrow."
"Fine. Fine," Prique nodded. "And what about women?"
Post was positive his face was flushing. "Well, we've already become extremely friendly with one couple in particular, the Prantises."
"Now you know that isn't what I mean, Stu."
"There's a woman named Francesca Abblebaum. Well educated, or at least, she's been around. European background. Her husband's a nice, steady, Rock of Gibralter type. She seems rather friendly toward me."
"Excellent," Prique said. "Excellent. I have a feeling, Stu, that you and June are going to turn in a fine report, something to make the Institute truly proud."
Post wasn't thinking of that. He was thinking how little justice he'd paid Francesca by his description of her. She seemed to radiate a tasteful but different femininity. It was knowing that she was close at hand that excited him, but when he was honest in his thoughts, he knew what lay directly behind them: June Harlon.
He arrived at Diamond Jim's five minutes early, gave his name to the host and went into the bar, actually beginning to tremble with the anticipation of what he knew was going to happen.
All the way in from Beverly Hills, he'd told himself he was simply going to talk to Francesca, to suggest that they be close friends. He even had the speech all prepared. "You're right, Francesca. I don't think it's fair to limit friendships to men. But I don't think it's fair to cheat on June, either."
But this stuck in his craw and he could not bring himself to play out this part of the game, not when it was so ironic, not when he believed there would be no chance of this happening if he truly could be with June.
Why not go through with it? he thought. Why the hell not? He was not cheating on June; he was cheating on Prique. To hell with Prique. It didn't really effect anyone but Ted Abblebaum, and Francesca could take care of that.
The knowledge that he would do it made him thirst for another Jack Daniels. He drank it off neat, then sipped at the ice water chaser. A sudden tingle ran down his spine, and a brief fraction of a second later, he smelled the tang of spiced apples. He turned to face her, his hands still shaking.
"I'm glad you're here, Stu," she said in that same, low huskiness she'd used when leaving his car.
"So am I," he told her.
Her hand felt smooth and reassuring on his wrist. "You're excited already, aren't you?" she asked, moving closer to him. He could feel the firmness of her thigh, pressing against him.
"Yes," he said, "I guess I am. Are you hungry?"
"Not particularly," she said, her eyes meeting his with a frank evenness.
"Me neither," he told her.
Her hand tightened on his wrist. "Then I haven't the vaguest idea what we're doing here, have you?"