Her breasts, her nipples, had been sucked and bitten until they bled. The insides of her thighs were raw. He’d done something, hadn’t he, with his fingers, his nails, she was bleeding but dear God what did it matter, it was all over, he hadn’t meant (he said) to be rough, he hadn’t meant to get carried away, why hadn’t she told him if he was hurting her.

“Jesus,” he said, staring, “—a big growed-up girl like you, a friend of Sheila Trask’s—”

16

Sheila cradled her head, rocked her, asked if she wanted to be taken to a doctor. If she wanted Sheila to report that bastard to the police.

Because he’d forced her, after all. Technically and legally it was rape.

Monica started laughing, then Monica was crying again, huddled in Sheila’s arms.

No she didn’t want to be taken to a doctor and no she didn’t want to report Win to the police it was her own fault primarily, just let it go.

Sheila held her; rocked her; lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke over Monica’s head, stroking her hair, murmuring, telling her she should never have consented to see Jack Winthrop—she should never have introduced them—it had all been a bloody mistake. If Monica had only—

Monica drew away from her, stiffening in opposition. She whispered that Sheila could go home whenever she wished; the emergency, such as it was, was over; all she wanted to do was sleep.

“If you’re sure you will be all right,” Sheila said uncertainly. “If you don’t want a doctor. . . .”

“No thank you, Sheila,” Monica said. “I think you’ve done enough.”

17

The day of Sheila Trask’s opening was a Wednesday, the champagne reception began at 5:30 P.M., but Monica made her excuses and stayed away; Monica was teaching her classes.

And afterward she sat in her empty classroom, staring into space.