The War of the Roses

'Ladyfriends,' Barbara repeated. 'I mean it seems logical. What do you think he does every night? After all, a man is different from a woman.'

When Ann still hadn't responded, Barbara turned toward her. 'What do you think?' she pressed.

'I have no idea,' Ann answered avoiding Barbara's eyes. Clever bitch, Barbara thought.

'He's still a man.'

*I haven't had much experience.'

Barbara sensed Ann's discomfort and proceeded cautiously.

'Do you suppose he's seeing prostitutes?' she wondered aloud. 'I doubt that.'

The response was whispered, almost furtive.

'You do? Why so?' Barbara turned again to watch her cope with her confusion, sure now that Ann was responding to the bait.

'He just doesn't seem like that kind of person,' Ann said, her face flushing. Barbara pressed on.

'Men don't really care where they put it. They seem to have a very low threshold of pleasure compared to women. I never did understand it. That thing of his. Always saluting. How do they carry that around with them all the time? Like a popgun ready to go off.'

She had gotten up and brought the cup and saucer to the dishwasher, sliding the rack out and placing them on it. -

'I hope I'm not embarrassing you, Ann,' Barbara said. 'I suppose he's unhappy as hell. Probably thinks I put a detective on his trail. Not so. It doesn't really matter. He could even have an affair in this house and it wouldn't matter.' She held her breath.

'It's none of my business,' Ann protested, unable to hide her irritation.

'I know, Ann.' She paused. 'Actually, I wish it would happen. Another woman might solve things for us.'

'What about another man? For you?'

Barbara laughed.

'I'm not going to fall into that trap so easily again.' 'Trap?'

'It is a trap, Ann.'

'And love?' Ann asked. The question seemed reckless, involuntary.

'Love? What's your opinion?' Barbara turned in time to see Ann blush scarlet. Good, she thought, remembering love.

'I have no opinion.'

'Come now, Ann,' Barbara snapped. 'Surely you've had that I-can't-live-without-you feeling. That clutching of the heart, those palpitations of desire.'

'I don't think about it,' Ann replied nervously. 'I'm too busy with my studies.'

'Don't you?'

'It's not a priority. That's all.'

Perhaps she had gone too far. Certainly she had stirred things up. She retreated quickly, sure now of this newly discovered weapon. Yet she was fond of Ann, and using this tactic made Barbara uncomfortable.

'I'm sorry, Ann,' she said, half sincerely. 'It's beginning to get to me. All this strain. Perhaps if I went away. Maybe up to Boston to visit my parents. And took the kids.' She was being deliberately hypothetical, waiting for some reaction. But none came. Ann got up and started to move away.

'What do you think?' Barbara asked hurriedly.

'About what?' Ann asked.

'About me going away for a weekend with the kids.' 'I don't know, Barbara.'

You know exactly what to think, Ann, Barbara thought, laying the anchovies on the salad mound.

15

The children's excitement at going to Boston masked Ann's own. She helped them pack and wrote down a great list of instructions that Barbara had given her, mostly about shopping and defrosting, so that Barbara would be able to meet her commitments when she came back Monday morning. Ann had also promised to feed Mercedes.

'I'll miss you all,' she cried, embracing each of them at the door, waving as they ran down the walk to the waiting taxi. She stood in the doorway for a long time, hoping they would see her lone figure.

But when they had gone, she wanted to shout for joy. Alone with Oliver. It was all she had thought about. She hoped she had successfully kept Barbara's suspicions at bay. But that was merely a detail now. All's fair in love and war, she thought gleefully. Not that he had ever given her the slightest encouragement, especially after his apology for the incident in the library on Christmas Eve.

'I'm sorry,' he had said, revealing both his vulnerability and his guilt.

She took a long, lingering bubble bath, perfumed and powdered herself, and put on a flimsy peignoir. She knew she was no physical match for Barbara. Ann's figure was spare but well proportioned, her breasts and buttocks small. Serviceable, she told herself, reflecting on her meagre experience. Nothing had moved her as much as that brief moment with Oliver. Nothing.

She hadn't told Oliver of her conversation with Barbara, which had agitated her. At the same time, it made her feel safer. Oliver, she was certain, believed that he was being watched and conducted himself accordingly. Perhaps now, possessed of the knowledge that Barbara had given her, she could allay his fears.

Nothing would have made her happier than to be the chatelaine of this lovely house. Was it a stroke of fate that Barbara had decided to divorce him so soon after she had arrived in the house? It was incomprehensible that Barbara could reject such a good and loving man. Impossible.