“Someone said something about her slacks in Nice.”
“That’s not a scandal,” David said. “It’s a big town. You had to expect that if you went there.”
“Do I look any different?” Catherine asked. “I wish they’d brought the mirror. Do I look any different to you?”
“No.” David looked at her. She looked very blond and disheveled and darker than ever and very excited and defiant.
“That’s good,” she said. “Because I tried it.”
“You didn’t do anything,” the girl said.
“I did and I liked it and I want another drink.”
“She didn’t do anything, David,” the girl said.
“This morning I stopped the car on the long clear stretch and kissed her and she kissed me and on the way back from Nice too and when we got out of the car just now.” Catherine looked at him lovingly but rebelliously and then said, “It was fun and I liked it. You kiss her too. The boy’s not here.”
David turned to the girl and she clung to him suddenly and they kissed. He had not meant to kiss her and he had not known it would be like this when he did it.
“That’s enough,” Catherine said.
“How are you?” David said to the girl. She was shy and happy again.
“I’m happy the way you said to be,” the girl told him.
“Everybody is happy now,” Catherine said. “We’ve shared all the guilt.”
They had a very good lunch and drank cold Tavel through the hors d’oeuvres, the poulet and the ratatouille, the salad and the fruit and cheese. They were all hungry and they made jokes and no one was solemn.
“There’s a terrific surprise for dinner or before,” Catherine said. “She spends money like a drunken oil-lease Indian, David.”
“Are they nice?” the girl asked. “Or are they like Maharajas?”
“David will tell you about them. He comes from Oklahoma.”
“I thought he came from East Africa.”
“No. Some of his ancestors escaped from Oklahoma and took him to East Africa when he was very young.
“It must have been very exciting.”
“He wrote a novel about being in East Africa when he was a boy.”
“I know.”
“You read it?” David asked her.
“I did,” she said. “Do you want to ask me about it?”
“No,” he said. “I’m familiar with it.”
“It made me cry,” the girl said. “Was that your father in it?”
“Some ways.
“You must have loved him very much.”
“I did.”
“You never talked to me about him,” Catherine said.
“You never asked me.” “Would you have?” “No,” he said.
“I loved the book,” the girl said. “Don’t overreach,” Catherine said.
“I wasn’t.”
“When you kissed him—”
“You asked me to.”
“What I wanted to say when you interrupted,” Catherine said, “was did you think of him as a writer when you kissed him and liked it so much?”
David poured a glass of Tavel and drank some of it.
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “I didn’t think.”
“I’m glad,” Catherine said. “I was afraid it was going to be like the clippings.”
The girl looked really mystified and Catherine explained, “The press cuttings about the second book. He’s written two you
know.”
“I only read The Rift.”
“The second one is about flying. In the war. It’s the only good thing anyone ever wrote about flying.”
“Balls,” David said.
“Wait until you read it,” Catherine said. “It’s a book you had to die to write and you had to be completely destroyed. Don’t ever think I don’t know about his books just because I don’t think he’s a vvriter when I kiss him.”
“I think we ought to take a siesta,” David said. “You ought to take a nap, Devil. You’re tired.”
“I talked too much,” Catherine said. “It was a nice lunch and I’m sorry if I talked too much and boasted.”
“I loved you when you talked about the books,” the girl said. “You were admirable.”
“I don’t feel admirable. I am tired,” Catherine said. “Have you plenty to read, Marita?”
“I have two books still,” the girl said. “Later I’ll borrow some if I may.
“May I come in to see you later?”