farther down the column: “Mr. Avery is best known for his recent book, A Mess of Pottage, a provocative attack on current trends in the contemporary novel.”
That was warning enough. The rattlesnake’s rattle. Amos didn’t want to read further, but he couldn’t help it. His gaze was glued to the page hypnotically.
A conscientious reviewer hardly knows what to say when he is confronted with another book by the industrious, nay, indefatigable Mr. Cottle. All that is jejune and meretricious in contemporary letters is embodied in the verbose, pretentious prose of this incredibly popular novelist, overlaid with a slick-magazine varnish sticky enough to act as flypaper for book club subscribers. The appalling thing is that Cottle gets away with it. People actually buy and read these books. Yet Cottle’s characters are merely types, his principles are prejudices in fancy dress and his whole narrative creaks woodenly from the first contrived scene to the last musty artifice—a thing of lath and plaster made to look like steel.
The only amusing thing about this sorry performance is the number of gross typographical errors, some as hilarious as “these Untied States.” The house of Sutton, Kane and Company needs some new proofreaders and, in the opinion of at least one reviewer, some new authors as well….
Amos angrily threw the paper across the floor. It was absurd to care. Let Gus and Tony do the worrying. They never worried much about things like this. Gus always said that book club subscribers didn’t pay any attention to reviews. Besides, Amos had never had the slightest sense of personal identification with these books, and yet—and yet…
He could not rid himself of the unpleasant feeling that his livelihood was being threatened. He was astonished at the strength of his own rage. At that moment he would have liked to get his hands around Emmett Avery’s throat and…
A faint sound from the terrace startled him. That aloneness that was so important to his inner sense of security was about to be disturbed. He waited uncomfortably, listening.
A light step came across the flagstones to the glass door. Through the glass he saw a lissome figure in gray slacks and a green sweater with green shoes. The pale, oval face smiled and the russet lips moved, but he couldn’t hear anything through the soundproof glass. Reluctantly he went to the door and pulled it open.
“Amos!” She threw her arms around his neck. He had to hold her. Their lips met. After a decent interval, he drew back.
“Phil, does Tony know you’re here?”
“Of course not. I’m supposed to be walking his boxer. I left the brute tied up outside.”
“Gosh, you’ve used that dodge for the last two years—almost every time you come over here. Doesn’t Tony have any idea what’s going on?”
“I’m sure he hasn’t. …Oh, Mos, what are we going to do about Vera?”
“I don’t know.” He sat down heavily on the edge of the sofa. The affair with Philippa had bothered him from the beginning. He had been afraid to refuse her. There was no knowing what tale she might have carried to Tony if he had. Now he was afraid to break with her. But his sense of guilt was intensified every time he saw Tony and as he saw Tony a great deal, the whole thing was becoming intolerable, for guilt bred fear.
“Tell me, Phil. Are you quite sure Tony doesn’t suspect us?”
“Of course not. Every time he mentions you now I tell him I think you’re an awful little man and I hate your writing. He believes it. He’s actually afraid you’ll find out I don’t like you. He just begs me to be nice to you.”
Amos sighed. “Not very subtle, are we?”
Philippa laughed. “Subtlety is wasted on Tony. He’s as bothered about Vera as we are. He’s afraid she’ll drive you to drink.”
“If anyone could, it’s Vera.”
She sat beside him, leaning her shoulder against his. “Amos, is it true you used to be an alcoholic?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Tony told me Friday night. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Why should I?”
“Most men like to confide in their women. It’s another form of intimacy.” She turned her head toward him and their eyes met within a few inches of each other. “Why is Vera coming back? Have you any idea what she wants?”
He drew back, and looked away.
“I think she’s broke, and I’m a lot more successful now than I was when she left me. Maybe she got wind of Lepton’s review at the studio before it was published and decided that I was worth cultivating. If that’s it, Avery’s review in the Tribune this morning should scare her off again.”
“If not, what are you going to do?”
Amos shrugged. “What can I do? I’ll meet her at the airport this afternoon and drive her to your house. I owe her that much. When the party’s over, I’ll come back here and leave her there. No need to see her again. Tony and Gus, between them, should be able to keep her out of my hair.”
Philippa eyed him curiously. “Why are you so passive, Amos? Already you’re letting Vera push you around. Why do you have to meet her at the airport? Why not let Tony do it?”
“He wanted to, but I said no. I want her to see me once so she can see for herself how utterly indifferent I am to her now.”
“If I were you, I’d hate her.”
“You probably would. I—well, as the young people say, I couldn’t care less.”
“Maybe that’s the best attitude. Hate is a compliment, like love, but indifference is devastating. If you can really make Vera believe you don’t care, she may leave you alone. I’m beginning to feel almost sorry for her.”
“Sorry? For Vera?”
“I feel sorry for any woman who has to do with you, Amos.” A sudden recklessness came into her eyes. “You don’t really care for me, do you?”
“I enjoy being with you,” he answered cautiously.
“But you don’t love me, do you?”
Their eyes met again. His were honestly puzzled. “Phil, what in God’s name does a woman like you see in a man like me? I’m not young or strong or gay or gallant. I’m not even good-humored and lovable. Sometimes I think you’re more in love with my writing than you are with me. There are a few clever women who unconsciously seek greatness of mind in their men just as the dull majority unconsciously seek greatness of fortune or strength of body. Is that what you’re looking for? The extra kick of being loved by a man with a great intellect? It would explain why your conscience doesn’t bother you. Historically, genius has always palliated adultery.”
“What a nasty word!”
“Genius or adultery?” Amos sighed again. “All right, I’m conceited, but I believe that’s it. You’re in love with the idea of loving a man of genius, the way some women are in love with the idea of loving a man of great wealth or power. Would you care for Amos Cottle if he were a garage mechanic? I doubt it.”
“You
