Chapters (29)
When they’d returned to the hotel from Lorna’s house earlier in the afternoon, Tim had pulled Desmond aside and handed him a postcard which, he said, Jane had left on the table at the coffee shop this morning. “I meant to give it to her, but I forgot.” Too intimidated was more to the point. The picture on the front was supposedly of the beach, but the photographer had obviously fallen in love with the road. The beach was relegated to the background where it appeared as a blur of white. On the back, she’d written a note to her shrink, a touching admission of guilt, but it wasn’t clear to him—probably it wasn’t clear to Jane, either—if she had intended to send it or not. He didn’t know what to do with it himself; tossing it out might be the simplest course.
“You remember when we were at the Ritz,” Desmond said, “the day you told me the station had almost certainly okayed the money? You also told me that day that your marriage was in the WASH cycle. Do you remember that? Warm Affection mixed with . . . something else I’m not sure of.”
“Oh, yes. That was my wishful thinking du jour.”
“I have the feeling it might be more a matter of Wondering About Second Husband. Choice of, to be more specific.”
“I had an affair with him, Desmond. With Dale. Which is like going back for seconds to the buffet table where you got food poisoning.” She let her head fall into her hands and gave a tug at her hair. “Ugh. I hate this perm. Despise it. Don’t you?”
“Yes, it’s horrible. It makes you look older and, to be even more blunt, it makes you look a little desperate.”
“I am desperate. Isn’t that obvious? I couldn’t be any more desperate. Who else but a desperate person would do such a thing?”
“Maybe you’re still in love with him.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “All I know is, he understands me, and when I’m with him, I know he sees me for who I am.”
In the flickering light of the candle, it was clear to Desmond that Jane, in her desperate hair, was wearing a costume. There’s always something exhilarating and awful about seeing people clearly, and most often, especially if you like them, you have to look away. So he couldn’t tell her that it seemed obvious she had it backward, that it was Thomas who understood her and saw her for who she was, while Dale merely saw her for who she wanted to be.
“I suppose we should be moving on to dinner soon,” he said.
“We should,” she said.
They ordered another round of drinks. Dinner was not on the menu tonight.