Trauma by Graham Masterton Page B

will you? I have to leave at five-thirty sharp.”
    â€œYes,
sir
!” Duke gave her a sarcastic salute and left. She went back to her wardrobe, jingling her way through the wire hangers in mounting desperation. All her clothes suddenly looked so cheap.
Make a decision. Make a decision. You’re going to be meeting people who buy their clothes on Rodeo Drive. They won’t have seen this dress in Wal-Mart
.
    In the end she decided on her navy-blue slacks and her cream satin blouse with the ruffles. The slacks were comfortable and even if the blouse’s ruffles looked a little country-and-western, they concealed the size of her breasts. She laid them out on the bed.
    Then she thought:
If it’s going to be a poolside party, will they expect me to go for a swim
? She’d better take a swimsuit in case. She rummaged through the bottom drawer of her dressing table and eventually found her spotted turquoise swimsuit, the one with the little skirt, but when she tried it on, she looked far too bulgy. Next she tried the purple Lycra swimsuit with the high-cut legs and that was better, even if the top was so tight that it gave her four breasts.
    By 5:05 she was ready, but Duke still wasn’t backwith the car. She watched TV for a while, nervously perched on the arm of the couch, holding her brown plastic pocketbook ready in her hand. Then she got up and looked out of the window. At 5:27 he still hadn’t returned, so she went and stood outside in the street. Old Mr. Lenz came past with his balding Pomeranian and said, “Hi there, Bonnie. Not working today?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Lenz. Not working today.”
Like—do I
look
like I’m working, in my new navy slacks and my ruffled satin blouse?
    Half past five came and went, and there was still no sign of Duke. She wished to God that she had told him to take her cell phone with him. She went back inside and primped her hair for the seventh time. She was beginning to feel hot and edgy now. Supposing Duke didn’t come back at all? That meant that she would have to take her truck.
    At 5:45 she wrote a note saying, “Gone To Ruth’s Thanks For Nothing” and stuck it on the front of the icebox with a magnet in the shape of a heart.

Party Party
    She parked the truck around the corner on Alta Avenue and walked the rest of the way. The street in front of Kyle Lennox’s house was a traffic jam of shiny, expensive automobiles—a yellow Ferrari Testarossa, a silver Lamborghini and more Mercedes than Bonnie had ever seen in one street together at the same time.
    Even out on the street she could hear the samba band playing “
Samba em Preludio
” with lazy, torpid, self-satisfied rhythm. Two pimply teenage car jockeys were standing on the lawn outside, wearing white coats with gold epaulets. They stared at Bonnie as she came walking up the street and up the redbrick pathway.
    â€œHelp you?” one of them asked her, showing his shiny wire braces.
    â€œI’ve been invited to the party,” said Bonnie.
    The car jockey peered over her shoulder in bewilderment. “Where’s your car, ma’am?”
    â€œI didn’t come by car.”
    â€œYou
walked
here?”
    â€œNo, I was dropped at the corner by an alien spacecraft. Is this the right way in?”
    â€œSure. I have to check your invitation.”
    â€œI wasn’t given an invitation.”
    â€œYou were invited but you weren’t given an invitation?”
    At that moment, however, Kyle Lennox appeared on the porch, wearing a green silk shirt and Happy white pants and carrying a highball. He lifted his drink in salute and said, “Bonnie! Come along in! Real glad you could make it!”
    Bonnie gave the car jockeys a “so-there” grimace and followed Kyle Lennox in through the front door. The stairs and the hallway were crowded with people, all of them shouting and shrieking so that they sounded like the passengers on a rapidly