doubtless be at her daily comer table. But what the hell—this was business, wasn't it?
Gavin dressed for lunch. Which is to say he put a dungaree jacket over his Red Sox T-shirt. When they got to the restaurant, it was rather late. Most people were having coffee and dessert—and Margo seemed to have left.
It was July, and Cambridge was an oven. So they ordered iced tea instead of an aperitif. Facing a long afternoon of editorial negotiations, they restricted their luncheon conversation to small talk.
"What is your husband working on at the moment?''
''Nothing serious. Our month at the Cape is strictly for reading paperbacks."
"Ah, a well-adjusted academic. Not too compulsive. Wish I could resist the furor scribendi. But Fm still driven to pubhsh. Do you have any children?"
This most innocuous of social queries jolted her out of the temporary amnesia she was enjoying.
"Uh—yes," she replied after a split second. "Two girls, nine and twelve. You?"
"Two. Quite grown up. My son's reading medicine at Oxford, Gemma's still at home with my ex-wife. But she'll be starting some sort of comparative literature thing at East Anglia this fall. I don't think they miss their father much, but Fm afraid I do them."
"You must get over there for the State Department now and then, don't you?"
"Oh, the odd forty-eight-hour whirlwind. I call them, but they're always too busy with something or other. I think my wife's propaganda has done its work."
"Are you on very bad terms—or shouldn't I ask?"
"Not at all. Yes, we are on extremely bad terms.
She's never forgiven me for joining the British brain
drain. Not that she has anything against America—
she's never been here. But she objects to it in principle. So, having made me choose between her and Harvard—never expecting I would take the latter-she's been a bit ill-disposed towards me ever since. Vm still fond of her, if that counts for anything. And I miss the children. Oh—but Vm repeating myself. Do forgive me for babbling on about boring domestic matters.''
He looked at her. She did not seem bored, but she was a very bright, attractive woman, and he was anxious to make a good impression.
"You're not boring me at all," she answered, genuinely happy to be discussing someone else's domestic problems. And then she asked him, "Are you bitter?"
He seemed unprepared for her question. "Do I seem bitter?" he asked.
"No, of course not," she said quickly, "and it was impolite of me to ask."
"Not at all," he protested. "It was just unnecessary."
Now she was surprised. "I don't understand," she said.
"You're perspicacious enough to have noticed without asking. You could tell before my monologue was halfway through that my pride was—shall we say—sprained. Why else would I have told you when we could have been discussing things of interest to us both?"
Sheila did not know what to say. She was curiously flattered. She had never considered herself perceptive about anyone except Bob and the children. But Gavin was obviously trying to flatter her. After all, he had a reputation for suavity.
As she was reaching for the credit cards in her purse, he put his hand on hers.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" he asked.
"Paying the check/' she repHed. ''This was Harvard Press business."
'Tlease, I insist. All we did was talk about my domestic sorrows."
''No. I like to use my expense account. It makes me feel important."
She removed her hand, found her credit card, signaled the waiter and settled the bill.
"Thank you, Sheila," he smiled. "Are you always this persuasive?"
"Only when it comes to my job," she smiled back.
By five-thirty they had worked their way painstakingly through four chapters, marking in the margins where revisions or at least rechecking would be necessary. By now Sheila was getting tired.
"You'll have to excuse me, Gavin," she said, barely suppressing a yawn, "but Fve got a long drive back to the Cape. I can go through the rest of the chapters, make
Gavin dressed for lunch. Which is to say he put a dungaree jacket over his Red Sox T-shirt. When they got to the restaurant, it was rather late. Most people were having coffee and dessert—and Margo seemed to have left.
It was July, and Cambridge was an oven. So they ordered iced tea instead of an aperitif. Facing a long afternoon of editorial negotiations, they restricted their luncheon conversation to small talk.
"What is your husband working on at the moment?''
''Nothing serious. Our month at the Cape is strictly for reading paperbacks."
"Ah, a well-adjusted academic. Not too compulsive. Wish I could resist the furor scribendi. But Fm still driven to pubhsh. Do you have any children?"
This most innocuous of social queries jolted her out of the temporary amnesia she was enjoying.
"Uh—yes," she replied after a split second. "Two girls, nine and twelve. You?"
"Two. Quite grown up. My son's reading medicine at Oxford, Gemma's still at home with my ex-wife. But she'll be starting some sort of comparative literature thing at East Anglia this fall. I don't think they miss their father much, but Fm afraid I do them."
"You must get over there for the State Department now and then, don't you?"
"Oh, the odd forty-eight-hour whirlwind. I call them, but they're always too busy with something or other. I think my wife's propaganda has done its work."
"Are you on very bad terms—or shouldn't I ask?"
"Not at all. Yes, we are on extremely bad terms.
She's never forgiven me for joining the British brain
drain. Not that she has anything against America—
she's never been here. But she objects to it in principle. So, having made me choose between her and Harvard—never expecting I would take the latter-she's been a bit ill-disposed towards me ever since. Vm still fond of her, if that counts for anything. And I miss the children. Oh—but Vm repeating myself. Do forgive me for babbling on about boring domestic matters.''
He looked at her. She did not seem bored, but she was a very bright, attractive woman, and he was anxious to make a good impression.
"You're not boring me at all," she answered, genuinely happy to be discussing someone else's domestic problems. And then she asked him, "Are you bitter?"
He seemed unprepared for her question. "Do I seem bitter?" he asked.
"No, of course not," she said quickly, "and it was impolite of me to ask."
"Not at all," he protested. "It was just unnecessary."
Now she was surprised. "I don't understand," she said.
"You're perspicacious enough to have noticed without asking. You could tell before my monologue was halfway through that my pride was—shall we say—sprained. Why else would I have told you when we could have been discussing things of interest to us both?"
Sheila did not know what to say. She was curiously flattered. She had never considered herself perceptive about anyone except Bob and the children. But Gavin was obviously trying to flatter her. After all, he had a reputation for suavity.
As she was reaching for the credit cards in her purse, he put his hand on hers.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" he asked.
"Paying the check/' she repHed. ''This was Harvard Press business."
'Tlease, I insist. All we did was talk about my domestic sorrows."
''No. I like to use my expense account. It makes me feel important."
She removed her hand, found her credit card, signaled the waiter and settled the bill.
"Thank you, Sheila," he smiled. "Are you always this persuasive?"
"Only when it comes to my job," she smiled back.
By five-thirty they had worked their way painstakingly through four chapters, marking in the margins where revisions or at least rechecking would be necessary. By now Sheila was getting tired.
"You'll have to excuse me, Gavin," she said, barely suppressing a yawn, "but Fve got a long drive back to the Cape. I can go through the rest of the chapters, make
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