Almost Perfect by Alice Adams

glimpses, perhaps to bargain with it.
    This is how it came about, her possession of this marvelous piece of news: three nights ago she was having dinner with Denny, a young friend (her hairdresser, in fact, but very presentable; they go to the opera together). In any case, she and Denny had gone to dinner at a rather stylish place on Jackson Street, and there, in a booth not far from theirs, Margot saw: Richard Fallon and an absolute knockout of a woman, one of those giant European blondes, with their perfect skin and teeth (but the skin is always tanned and will surely be leather, if not something worse, by the time they’re fifty). But definitely Richard, and definitely Another Woman. About as far from dark dowdy little Stella as you could get. Ah, delicious! Margot instantly thought of uses for this development: how could Stella be so smug, imagining that Richard Fallon was in love with her?
    First off she thought of telling Andrew, of course, and she thought of what they, she and Andrew, could do with this piece of news. Very
Liaisons Dangereuses
, Margot thought.
    And in the meantime she watched. Oh, how she watched every gesture that passed between those two, who were fortunately seated in a booth more or less in front of Margot and Denny’s booth, so that she could observe without being herself observed; she was quite sure that Richard had not seen her.
    That woman, that huge blonde, was all over Richard, Margot saw that right away. Her hands—and such very large hands too—were touching Richard’s hands, her face was leaning forward, close to Richard’s face. She was huge but extremely thin, theblonde was, and wearing a super dress of dark ruffled silk. Ungaro, Margot thought.
    Suppose she told Stella? Margot for an instant wondered that. Would that be a bad or a good thing to do? Not that she is a feminist, of course not, but what is the feminist line on such things: are you supposed to tell a friend about a man who cheats? It does seem wrong, in a way, to let Stella continue in this dazzled dream of love, to let Stella believe that Richard really and truly loves her, and only her. On the other hand, it would be cruel indeed to tell her. Margot would have to discuss it with Andrew, she decided. She could hardly wait.
    In the meantime she could not resist mentioning to Denny that she knew that couple over there, who were making rather a spectacle of themselves.
    “Oh, I know Richard Fallon, I mean I’ve heard of him, I mean who hasn’t?” Denny told her. He laughed. “Once at a party there was this big, fierce argument, a fight, I guess you could call it, about who was the handsomest man in town, and your Richard certainly had his supporters.”
    Margot giggled. “Hardly my Richard, thank heaven. But what about Andrew Bacci? Don’t you think he’s pretty?”
    Margot could have sworn that Denny blushed as he said, “I sure do.”
    Margot paused, and then asked him, “That woman, the one with Richard, with all that blond hair—is that all hers, that color?”
    Denny squinted forward. “Sorry, babes, it’s hers, and it’s real. She’s some kind of northern Kraut, I’d bet on it.”
    “You can tell from hair color?”
    “Sometimes. Some places. You know. Some guys are good at accents. I’m hair.” And he grinned up at Margot.
    Cute little Denny. Her pixie. A sudden out-of-character gust of kindliness induced Margot to say, “You know you’re really one of the cutest of all, darling Dens.”
    She looked up to observe a long passionate kiss between Richard Fallon and his German blonde.
    *  *  *
    Now, in bed with her coffee, in its beautiful French cup, Margot turns over possible uses of this gossip; not even gossip, actually—this is fact. Richard Fallon is cheating on Stella.
    She would like to tell Andrew right off, but at the same time she wonders, Would telling Andrew make him mad at her, for telling? would he somehow blame her for Richard’s bad character? Men can be like that, as