And if she slipped away from her office in the afternoon—her office hours being 4:00–5:00—with a note taped to the door cancelling her conferences for the day—if she hurried across the lush greening lawn (bordered by tulips, daffodils, jonquils set fastidiously in place) to get to her car, and to freedom, escape—for she was needed, badly needed, at Edgemont: the knowledge weighed upon her obsessively—if she disappointed a boy or two, or three: surely they would not be vindictive, and complain of her to her chairman?—for after all they liked her, they admired her, she was reasonably certain of that.

“I will make up for it,” Monica thought, “—after the show opens. Once the show opens. Then—”

Sheila was saying in a small flat voice that she couldn’t allow the canvases out of the studio. Not that she was thinking of destroying them but it was clear to her now that she had months of work before her: the show would be premature: she would be exposed: her life would be over.

“I made a miscalculation,” Sheila said. “Going to North Africa when I did.” She paused; she stared hard at Monica, quite clearly hating her. “Going to North Africa when I did, because of you. And my head was prized off. Too much light—external light. External fucking light when that has nothing to do with anything here.”

Monica was stung by these words, yet, oddly, not very surprised. She was losing her capacity to be surprised: as drained of energy, in truth, as Sheila Trask herself, and not nearly so strong.

Monica said calmly, even briskly, that the arrangements with the gallery were all made. The van; the driver; the invitations; the plans for the champagne reception and the dinner afterward; the small press conference. (“Don’t worry, I’ll be with you,” Monica said. “I’ve promised, and I will.”)

Sheila seemed to be listening, yet, a minute later, she repeated that the paintings weren’t ready to be hung. If Morton were here he would know: he’d give his judgment and that would be that. He never humored her, Sheila said. She was sitting slouched on the edge of a windowsill, beneath what seemed very nearly a blast of warm white humid sunshine, unflattering to her sallow skin, her pouched eyes. She dragged a hand slowly across her mouth. He never exploited or manipulated her, she said. Again she looked hard at Monica, her mouth twisting as if she were about to cry; or utter a violent epithet.

“No one is exploiting or manipulating you,” Monica said carefully. “You know that.”

“Do I? Do I? What do I know!—only what you fuckers tell me,” Sheila said.

“Sheila, you don’t mean that,” Monica said, going to lay a hand lightly on Sheila’s shoulder. She would quiet her, Monica thought, she would stroke her into submission, as one might a frightened child or an animal.