Seventy-first and West End, and it’s actually a pretty decent place to live, even if you wouldn’t be likely to mistake it for the Museum of Modern Art.
“Besides,” she said, “you can just tell an original, can’t you? I spent two hours at the Mondrian show at MOMA. You must have gone.”
“Twice. Once when it opened and again just before it closed the end of January.”
“Then surely you know what I mean. When you’ve seen the actual originals, not just reproductions of them in books, you wouldn’t be taken in by a copy like this.” She smiled. “Not that it’s not very good for what it is, Bernie.”
“Well, we can’t all be originals,” I said. “What did you mean when you said you’d miss it?”
“Did I say that? I was talking to myself, really. Bernie, where are my panties?”
“I swear I’m not wearing them.”
“Oh, here they are. Now how do you suppose they got all the way over here?”
“They flew on wings of love,” I said. I got out of bed myself and turned off Mel Tormé. “There’s something I keep forgetting to ask you. Are you free a week from Thursday?”
“A week from Thursday. Not this Thursday but the following Thursday.”
“Right.”
“Thursday week, the English would say.”
“They probably would,” I said, “and that actually ties in with what I’m about to suggest. See, I thought—”
“Actually, I’m not.”
“You’re not what?”
“Free. On Thursday week.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is it something you can get out of?”
“Not really.”
“Because if you could postpone it, we could—”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, Thursday would have been best, but I suppose we could let it go until Friday.”
“That’s Friday week.”
“Right. A week from this coming Friday. We could—”
“We can’t.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Actually,” she said, “I’m afraid I’ll be tied up the whole weekend, Bernie, from Thursday evening on.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Sorry.”
“I was sort of planning on us spending the weekend together, but—”
“I’m afraid it’s not on. Could you hook this for me, Bernie?”
“Uh, sure. Oh, sorry. My hand slipped.”
“Oh, I’ll just bet it did.”
“Well, an irresistible impulse drew it here. But if you don’t like the way it feels—”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Or if you want me to stop—”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
So we made do without Mel Tormé, and I can’t say his absence was much noticed. Afterward I collapsed like a blown tire, and the next thing I knew she had all her clothes on and one hand on the doorknob.
“Wait,” I said. “I can at least see you downstairs and put you into a cab.”
“No need for you to get dressed, Bernie. And I am in rather a hurry.”
“At least let me tell you what I had planned for the weekend.”
“All right.”
“Because we could always do it the following week, if I can manage to get reservations. Or, once you hear what I’ve got planned for us, you might want to cancel your own plans.”
“Well, tell me.”
“Cuttleford House,” I said.
“Cuttleford House.” She frowned in thought. “Isn’t that—”
“The English country house in the Berkshires,” I said. “Exclusive, expensive, and authentic. A coal fire on every hearth. Serving girls dropping curtsies. Serving boys dropping aitches. Tea brought to your room at daybreak. Guests who still haven’t recovered from having lost India. No television in the whole house, no automobiles anywhere on the property.”
“It sounds heavenly.”
“Well, I know what a passion you have for everything English,” I said, “and I saw how much you enjoyed tea at the Stanhope, and I thought this would be the perfect weekend for us. I was planning on telling you on Valentine’s Day, but it had come and gone by the time I managed to get through to them and make the reservation.”
“What a sweet man you are, Bernie.”
“That’s me,” I agreed. “What do you say, Lettice? If you’re positive you can’t shift your plans, I’ll try to switch our reservations to the following weekend.”
“I only wish I could.”
“You wish you could which?”
“Either.” She sighed, let go of the doorknob, and came back into the room, leaning against a bookcase. “I was hoping to avoid this,” she said. “I thought it would be so much nicer for both of us to just make love and leave it at that.”
“Leave what at what? You lost me.”
“In a manner of speaking,” she said, “that’s precisely it. Oh, Bernie, I wish I could go with you Thursday week, but it’s just not on.”
“What else are you doing,” I heard myself say, “that’s so important?”
“Oh, Bernie.”
“Well?”
“You’ll hate me.”
“I won’t hate you.”
“But you will, and I won’t blame