used. Sometimes I fold it up and put it in my tote bag and carry it with me all day. And I reach for that towel and touch it. And it almost smells of him … and I get weak. I know it sounds silly, but I do this even when I know I’m going to meet him at the Lancer Bar that very day. And each time I walk in there I die because I think maybe he won’t be there, yet he always is. And sometimes when I sit with him and he grins at me, I think, Oh God, can I just hold this moment, make it last forever. And that scares me because it means maybe I expect to lose him someday.” She put her hands over her eyes as if to block out the thought.
Jerry felt his own eyes become moist in sympathy. “You won’t lose him, Amanda, you’re doing fine. You’ve held him almost a year. That’s a record in itself.” Then he handed her a contract. “I think you’ll be just wonderful for our product. And it’s our pleasure to have you on the show.”
Tears threatened to spill down her face. She reached for the pen and quickly scratched her name on the contract. When she held out her hand she was once more in complete control.
He watched her as she left the office. Who would ever dream that this supergirl, this perfect creature, was going through a torturous love affair? It must be torture, loving Robin Stone. Because any woman would know she never really had him and sense that one day she must lose him. He knew the Amandas would come and go, while he would always be able to join Robin Stone at the Lancer Bar.
Two weeks later Jerry paid his first visit to a psychiatrist. He had been making love to Mary with startling infrequency. When she first brought it up, she had tried to make light of it: “Hey, you with your work and your golf on weekends—have you forgotten the woman you love?”
He had looked properly startled. As if it had been an oversight.
“Not once all summer,” she said good-naturedly. “And now it’s the middle of September. Do I have to wait until it’s too cold for golf?”
He had made excuses, mumbling about how hectic the start of a new season always was. September was pressure time.
In November he blamed it on commuting. The weather was too hazardous to drive, and it was rough taking the train each morning, rushing for the train home. No, it wasn’t because he was at the Lancer Bar with Robin Stone. He worked late!
During the Christmas season he had more excuses. Everything was hectic. In January he had Alwayso to contend with. The commercials had to be written, the product selected for the first commercial—hair spray, or the new iridescent nail polish? If these excuses appeased Mary, they did not satisfy the nagging doubt that was beginning to form in his own mind. Well, he was tired, the weather was lousy, and he had a cold that hung on. There were even times he blamed Mary’s fat pink hair rollers. How was a guy supposed to be filled with desire when his wife slid into bed with fat pink rollers and a face loaded with night cream! To avoid arguments he kept silent. The atmosphere began to feel like a pressure cooker. And one night it exploded.
It happened on a Tuesday, a week after he had hired Amanda. He had spent the day checking the commercial copy. Everything went according to schedule. He had felt good. It had been one of those rare days, a day that had passed without any crisis. Even the weather was clear. He had taken the five-ten train and when he walked up the path to his house he suddenly felt a sense of well-being. It had snowed the day before. In New York it was already mashed into small banks of dull gray slush. But in Greenwich it looked like a Christmas card, clean and untouched. The lights that glowed in the windows beckoned warmth and hospitality. He entered and felt enveloped with contentment. The kids had yelled “Daddy! Daddy!” with pealing enthusiasm. He had played with them, enjoyed them, and felt relief when the maid took them off to bed. He had mixed martinis and had Mary’s
Jerry felt his own eyes become moist in sympathy. “You won’t lose him, Amanda, you’re doing fine. You’ve held him almost a year. That’s a record in itself.” Then he handed her a contract. “I think you’ll be just wonderful for our product. And it’s our pleasure to have you on the show.”
Tears threatened to spill down her face. She reached for the pen and quickly scratched her name on the contract. When she held out her hand she was once more in complete control.
He watched her as she left the office. Who would ever dream that this supergirl, this perfect creature, was going through a torturous love affair? It must be torture, loving Robin Stone. Because any woman would know she never really had him and sense that one day she must lose him. He knew the Amandas would come and go, while he would always be able to join Robin Stone at the Lancer Bar.
Two weeks later Jerry paid his first visit to a psychiatrist. He had been making love to Mary with startling infrequency. When she first brought it up, she had tried to make light of it: “Hey, you with your work and your golf on weekends—have you forgotten the woman you love?”
He had looked properly startled. As if it had been an oversight.
“Not once all summer,” she said good-naturedly. “And now it’s the middle of September. Do I have to wait until it’s too cold for golf?”
He had made excuses, mumbling about how hectic the start of a new season always was. September was pressure time.
In November he blamed it on commuting. The weather was too hazardous to drive, and it was rough taking the train each morning, rushing for the train home. No, it wasn’t because he was at the Lancer Bar with Robin Stone. He worked late!
During the Christmas season he had more excuses. Everything was hectic. In January he had Alwayso to contend with. The commercials had to be written, the product selected for the first commercial—hair spray, or the new iridescent nail polish? If these excuses appeased Mary, they did not satisfy the nagging doubt that was beginning to form in his own mind. Well, he was tired, the weather was lousy, and he had a cold that hung on. There were even times he blamed Mary’s fat pink hair rollers. How was a guy supposed to be filled with desire when his wife slid into bed with fat pink rollers and a face loaded with night cream! To avoid arguments he kept silent. The atmosphere began to feel like a pressure cooker. And one night it exploded.
It happened on a Tuesday, a week after he had hired Amanda. He had spent the day checking the commercial copy. Everything went according to schedule. He had felt good. It had been one of those rare days, a day that had passed without any crisis. Even the weather was clear. He had taken the five-ten train and when he walked up the path to his house he suddenly felt a sense of well-being. It had snowed the day before. In New York it was already mashed into small banks of dull gray slush. But in Greenwich it looked like a Christmas card, clean and untouched. The lights that glowed in the windows beckoned warmth and hospitality. He entered and felt enveloped with contentment. The kids had yelled “Daddy! Daddy!” with pealing enthusiasm. He had played with them, enjoyed them, and felt relief when the maid took them off to bed. He had mixed martinis and had Mary’s
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