WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

dozen times. She repeatedly sorted through the contents of her closet, searching

frantically for something else to wear, something more sensible, but she didn’t

have anything because she had never before needed clothes for a dressy

restaurant.

Scowling at herself in the bathroom mirror, she said, “You look like Dustin

Hoffman in Tootsie.”

She suddenly laughed because she knew she was being too hard on herself. But she

couldn’t go easier on herself because that was how she felt: like a guy in drag.

In this case, feelings were more important than facts, so her laughter quickly

soured.

She broke down and cried twice, and considered calling him to cancel their date.

But she wanted more than anything to see him, no matter how horribly humiliating

the evening was going to be. She used Murine to get the red out of her eyes, and

she tried the dress on again—and took it off.

When he arrived at a few minutes past seven, he looked handsome in a dark suit.

Nora was wearing a shapeless blue shift with dark-blue shoes.

He said, “I’ll wait.”

She said, “Huh? For what?”

“You know,” he said, meaning, Go change.

The words came out in a nervous rush, and her excuse was limp: “Travis, I’m

sorry, this is terrible, I’m so sorry, but I spilled coffee all over the dress.”

“I’ll wait in here,” he said, walking to the living room archway.

She said, “A whole pot of coffee.”

“Better hurry. Our reservation is for seven-thirty.”

Steeling herself for the amused whispers if not outright laughter of everyone

who saw her, telling herself that Travis’s opinion was the only one that

mattered, she changed into the Diane Freis dress.

She wished she had not undone the hairstyle that Melanie had given her a couple

of days ago. Maybe that would help.

No, it would probably just make her look more ludicrous.

When she came downstairs again, Travis smiled at her and said, “You’re lovely.”

She didn’t know whether the food at Talk of the Town was as good as its

reputation or not. She tasted nothing. Later, she could not clearly remember the

decor of the place, either, though the faces of the other customers— including

the actor Gene Hackman—were burned into her memory because she was certain that,

all evening, they were staring at her with amazement and disdain.

In the middle of dinner, evidently well aware of her discomfort, Travis put down

his wineglass and leaned toward her and said quietly, “You really do look

lovely, Nora, no matter what you think. And if you had the experience to be

aware of such things, you’d realize that most of the men in the room are

attracted to you.”

But she knew the truth, and she could face it. If men really were staring at

her, it was not because she was pretty. People could be expected to stare at a

turkey with a feather duster trying to pass itself off as a peacock.

“Without a trace of makeup,” he said, “you look better than any woman in the

room.”

No makeup. That was another reason they were staring at her. When a Woman put on

a five-hundred-dollar dress to be taken to an expensive restaurant, she made

herself look as good as possible with lipstick, eyeliner, makeup, skin blush,

and God knew what else. But Nora had never even thought about makeup.

The chocolate mousse dessert, though surely delicious, tasted like library paste

to her and repeatedly stuck in her throat.

She and Travis had talked for long hours during the past couple of weeks, and

they had found it surprisingly easy to reveal intimate feelings and thoughts to

each other. She had learned why he was alone in spite of his good looks

and relative wealth, and he had learned why she harbored a low opinion of

herself. So when she could not choke down any more of the mousse, when she

implored Travis to take her home right away, he said softly, “If there’s any

justice, Violet Devon is sweating in Hell tonight.”

Shocked, Nora said, “Oh, no. She wasn’t that bad.”

All the way home, he was silent, brooding.

When he left her at her door, he insisted she set up a meeting with Garrison

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