“What, Joe? How?” (Eunice, is this all right?) (Sure, twin. Joe approves of babies as long as he doesn’t have to bother with them. He’s pleased that you are happy—and doesn’t think about how it happened or what you’ll do about it. But not callous. If you were broke, he would take you in and try to support your baby and still not ask where you got it. He doesn’t find the world complex, dear—so it isn’t . . . to him.)
“Puzzle problem. You look like Eunice, how else? But look better. Impossible. Know why now. Any broad looks best doin’ her thing.”
“Joe, do you think pregnant women are beautiful later? Say eight, or nearly nine mouths gone?”
“Sure!” Joe seemed surprised that she would ask. “More beautiful. Healthy, happy woman ready to drop—how not? Top symbol of The All. Shut up now. Work.”
“Please, Joe, one more question. Will you paint me when I’m big as a house? Between eight and nine months? Could be a cheat job. Might have to be, I might not be able to pose very long when I’m heaviest.”
He smiled in delight. “You bet, Annette! Artist don’ get that chance much. Most broads silly about it. But now shut up. Must look gutsy, so think gutsy. Don’ act—be. Sweaty, eager. Joan Eunice, Gigi’s got you set up, eager. But scared. Virgin. Gigi, you just eager. Maybe gloating, but think, don’t do. Not even face. Just think.”
He stopped to reposition lights, scowled at his models, changed his lights a little, brushed an oily rag on Gigi’s right shoulder and breast. “Is right! Nipples up? Joan Eunice, can’t you get ‘em tight? Try thinking about men, not Gigi.”
“I’ll fix it,” Gigi assured him. “Listen, darling.” She started whispering, telling Joan in blunt detail what this ancient Grecian Lesbian was about to do to the virgin helpless in her arms.
Joan found that her breasts tightened so hard that they hurt. She wet her lips and looked back at Gigi, hardly noticed that they were being photographed.
“Break,” announced Joe. “Off throne, pau tonight. Got good shots.”
Joan straightened up, peered across the room at the clock. “My goodness! Blackbirds already?”
“So bed,” he agreed. “Pose tomorrow.”
Gigi said, “I’m still going to do those dishes, Joe. You set up the cot.”
“I’ll do them, Gigi.”
“I’ll wash, you can wipe.”
By the time they finished, Joe was in the cot and apparently asleep. Gigi said, “Which side do you like, hon?”
“Either one.”
“Crawl in.”
24
Joan woke with her head on Gigi’s shoulder. Gigi was looking at her, which helped Joan to remember where she was. She yawned and said, “Good morning, darling. Is it morning? Where’s Joe?”
“Joe’s getting breakfast. Had enough sleep, dear?”
“Guess so. What time is it?”
“I don’t know. The question is, are you rested? If not, go back to sleep.”
“I’m rested, I feel grand. Let’s get up.”
“All right. But I charge one kiss to get past me.”
“Outrageous,” Joan said happily, and paid toll. But Joe was not at the kitchen unit; he was projecting the photographs he had taken the night before. Gigi said, “Look at that, Joan. Forgotten all about offering to get breakfast.”
“It’s no matter,” Joan said softly.
“Don’t bother to keep your voice down, Joe can’t hear when he’s working. Unless you shout. Well, let’s scrounge, then we’ll try to get him to eat. Hmmm . . . not much to offer a guest.”
“I don’t need a big breakfast. Juice and toast. Coffee.”
“No juice.” Gigi poked around futilely. “I could give you a Reddypak. Spaghetti or something. I’ve got a grocery shop. Send Joe out for groceries and he comes home with a new picture book and some paint, happy as a kid. No use scolding him.”
Joan Eunice caught an undertone in Gigi’s voice, said softly, “Gigi, are you broke?”
Gigi did not answer. She kept her face turned away, got out half a loaf of bread, prepared to make toast. Joan persisted, still speaking quietly, “Gigi, I’m rich, I suppose you know. But Joe won’t take a dime from me. You don’t have to be that stubborn.”