She didn’t know, but she did know the thought she might not see him anymore made her feel miserable . . . and frightened, as well, as if she had lost some vital piece of operating equipment. It was impossible for one person to become dependent on another so quickly, of course, but as one o’clock came and went, and two (and three), the idea began to seem less and less ridiculous. If such instant dependency was impossible, why did she feel so panicky and oddly drained at the thought of never seeing him again?
When she finally had fallen asleep, she’d dreamed of riding on his motorcycle again; of wearing the rose madder gown and squeezing him with her bare thighs. When the alarm had wakened her — much too soon after she finally fell asleep — she had been breathing hard and was hot all over, as if with a fever.
‘Rosie, are you all right?’ Rhoda asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just . . .’ She glanced at Curtis, then back at Rhoda. She shrugged and hoisted the corners of her mouth in a lame little smile. ‘It’s just, you know, a bad time of the month for me.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Rhoda said. She didn’t look convinced. ‘Well, come on down to the caff with us.
We’ll drown our sorrows in tuna salad and strawberry milkshakes.’
‘You bet,’ Curt said. ‘My treat.’
Rosie’s smile was a trifle more genuine this time, but she shook her head. ‘I’m going to pass. What I want is a good walk, with my face right into the wind. Blow some of the dust out.’
‘If you don’t eat, you’ll probably faint dead away around three o’clock,’ Rhoda said.
‘I’ll grab a salad. Promise.’ Rosie was already heading for the creaky old elevator.
‘Anything more than that and I ruin half a dozen perfectly good takes by burping, anyway.’
‘It wouldn’t make much difference today,’ Rhoda said. ‘Twelve -fifteen, okay?’
‘You bet,’ she said, but as the elevator lumbered down the four floors to the lobby, Rhoda’s last comment kept clanging in her head: It wouldn’t make much difference today. What if she wasn’t any better this afternoon? What if they went from take seventy-three to take eighty to take a-hundred-and-who-knew-how-many? What if, when she met with Mr Lefferts tomorrow, he decided to give her her notice instead of a contract? What then?
She felt a sudden surge of hatred for Norman. It hit her between the eyes like some dull, heavy object — a doorstop, perhaps, or the blunt end of an old, rusty hatchet. Even if Norman hadn’t killed Mr Slowik, even if Norman was still back in that other timezone, he was still following her, just like Peterson was following poor scared Alma St George. He was following her inside her head.
The elevator settled and the doors opened. Rosie stepped out into the lobby, and the man standing by the building directory turned toward her, his face looking both hopeful and tentative. It was an expression that made him look younger than ever . . . a teenager, almost.
‘Hi, Rosie,’ Bill said.
9
She felt a sudden and amazingly strong urge to run, to do it before he could see the way he had staggered her, and then his eyes fixed on hers, caught them, and running away was no longer an option. She had forgotten about the fascinating green undertints in those eyes, like sunrays caught in shallow water. Instead of running for the lobby doors, she walked slowly toward him, feeling simultaneously afraid and happy. Yet what she felt most of all was an overwhelming sense of relief.
‘I told you to stay away from me.’ She could hear the tremble in her voice.
He reached for her hand. She felt sure she should not let him have it, but she couldn’t stop it from happening . . . nor her captured hand from turning in his grip so it could close on his long fingers.
‘I know you did,’ he said simply, ‘but Rosie, I can’t.’
That frightened her, and she dropped his hand. She studied his face uncertainly. Nothing like this had ever happened to her, nothing, and she had no idea of how to react or behave.
He opened his arms, and perhaps it was simply a gesture meant to underline and emphasize his helplessness, but it was all the gesture her tired, hopeful heart needed; it brushed aside the prissy ditherings of her mind and took charge. Rosie found herself stepping like a sleepwalker into the opening his arms made, and when they closed around her, she pressed her face against his shoulder and closed her eyes. And as his hands touched her hair, which she had left unplaited and loose upon her shoulders this morning, she had a strange and marvellous feeling: it was as if she had just woken up. As if she had been asleep, not just now, as she entered the circle of his arms, not just this morning since the alarm had blared her out of her motorcycle dream, but for years and years, like Snow White after the apple. But
now she was awake again, wide awake, and looking around with eyes that were just beginning to see.
‘I’m glad you came,’ she said.
10
They walked slowly east along Lake Drive, facing into a strong, warm wind. When he put his arm around her, she gave him a small smile. They were three miles west of the lake at this point, but Rosie felt she could walk all the way there if he would just keep his arm around her like that. All the way to the lake, and maybe all the way across it as well, stepping calmly from one wave-top to the next.
‘What are you smiling at?’ he asked her.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘Just feel like smiling, I guess.’
‘You’re really glad I came?’
‘Yes. I didn’t sleep much last night. I kept thinking I’d made a mistake. I guess I did make a mistake, but . . . Bill?’
‘I’m here.’
‘I did it because I feel more for you than I thought I’d ever feel for any man again in my whole life, and it’s all happened so fast . . . I must be crazy to be telling you this.’
He squeezed her briefly closer. ‘You’re not crazy.’
‘I called you and told you to stay away because something’s happening — may be happening — and I didn’t want you to be hurt. Not for anything. And I still don’t.’
‘It’s Norman, isn’t it? As in Bates. He’s come looking for you after all.’
‘My heart says he has,’ Rosie said, speaking very carefully, ‘and my nerves say he has, but I’m not sure I trust my heart — it’s been scared for so long — and my nerves . . . my nerves are just shot.’
She glanced at her watch, then at the hotdog stand on the corner just ahead. There were benches on a small grassy strip nearby, and secretaries eating their lunches.
‘Would you buy a lady a foot-long with sauerkraut?’ she asked. Suddenly a case of afternoon burps seemed like the least important thing in the world. ‘I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid.’
‘I think it could be arranged.’
‘We can sit on one of those benches and I’ll tell you about Norman, as in Bates. Then you can decide if you want to be around me or not. If you decide you don’t want to be, I’ll understand — ‘
‘Rosie, I won’t — ‘
‘Don’t say that. Not until I’ve told you about him. And you’d better eat before I start, or you’re apt to lose your appetite.’
11
Five minutes later he came over to the bench where she was sitting. He was carefully balancing a tray on which there were two foot-long dogs and two paper cups of lemonade.
She took a dog and a cup, set her drink on the bench beside her, then looked at him gravely.
‘You probably ought to stop buying me meals. I’m starting to feel like the waif on the UNICEF posters.’
‘I like buying you meals,’ he said. ‘You’re too thin, Rosie.’
That’s not what Norman says, she thought, but it was hardly the right remark, under the circumstances. She wasn’t sure what was, and found herself thinking of the half-witty
repartee the characters spouted on TV shows like Melrose Place. She could certainly use a little of that bright chatter now. Silly me, I forgot to bring my screenwriter with me, she thought. Instead of talking, she looked down at her krautdog and began poking the bun, her forehead creased and her mouth intent, as if this were some arcane pre-ingestion ritual which had been handed down in her family, mother to daughter, over the generations.
‘So tell me about Norman, Rosie.’
‘All right. Just let me think how to start.’