shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about it, dear. It was my per diem money.’
‘Well, thank you,’ Claire told her. ‘Thank you for everything.’
Abigail just nodded and Claire turned to go. But when she got to the door Abigail cleared her throat and Claire, of course, turned around.
‘Be sure to keep your dignity when you come back,’ Abigail said. ‘Don’t have any illusions about the future, even if Wainwright isn’t married.’ And, as Claire looked at the much older woman, she saw something in the fine face, the large eyes that showed her what Abigail Samuels must have looked like thirty years ago. She had been very beautiful, Claire could see and, just as clearly, Claire could also see that she had loved Mr Crayden, Senior back then. She probably still did. Claire wondered at the strangeness of time passing. Abigail had been a girl, just like her. And she must have had many adventures. Claire wondered if Abigail had ever had any illusions, but she thought not. Still, it didn’t mean that she hadn’t had her heart broken though she seemed so even and calm.
As if Abigail could read her thoughts, she looked directly into Claire’s face. ‘Things were different then,’ Abigail said. ‘In a way I think they were easier. People knew exactly where they stood. Men didn’t leave their wives. Women had lower expectations.’ She looked away from Claire, turning to gaze at the view. ‘Sometimes, even when it isn’t appropriate, people find one another and simply can’t be sensible. That hasn’t changed.’ She looked back at Claire. ‘But don’t become confused,’ she told her. ‘All of them have a different set of standards for their wives than they do for …’
Claire looked at her with compassion. But Abigail, a mystery who had revealed a great deal of herself, didn’t want compassion. ‘I didn’t lose my dignity and I have no regrets,’ she said.
‘I won’t either,’ Claire promised.
Tina finally left Michael Wainwright’s office a little after five-thirty, albeit reluctantly. Once she was there alone, Claire called her mother and told her she was off for a few days to Atlantic City. ‘Wish it could be me,’ her mom said. ‘Tell Christine not to throw all her wedding money away.’ Claire promised she would and felt a little guilty.
‘I love you, Mom,’ she said.
‘Love you, too.’ Then there was some background noise from Jerry. ‘Oh, I gotta go,’ said her mother, and hung up.
Now with nothing to do – Claire didn’t want to be caught knitting by Mr Wonderful – she was tempted to snoop. Who was this man she was about to go overseas with? She was far too polite – and timid – to open the drawers of his desk or look in the credenza behind it, but she did start to examine the framed photos and the diplomas on the wall.
He had gone to Yale, and Claire wondered if he had been in Skull and Bones, the elite club that all of the insiders of the insiders were members of. He had also graduated from Wharton Business School, probably the best in the country. There was a silver-framed picture of a young boy with a good-looking older man’s arm around his shoulder. They both held golf clubs.
Beside that was a photograph of Michael with three beautifully groomed women. The oldest must be his mother, because she looked just like Michael (although Claire reflected that, while Michael’s looks were splendid in a man, they were not as appropriate on a woman). She assumed that the other two women, both of whom looked slightly older than Michael, were his sisters. All four were sitting on a damask sofa, two on the seat and one perched on each arm. Claire, despite her unschooled eye, could tell that this was not a snapshot. She wondered what it would be like to have professional photographers come into your home, instead of just setting the time on the Minolta and running into focus.
There was a photo that did look like a snapshot with a much younger Michael, kneeling on long grass, his arm around a Labrador retriever. Claire stared at the picture. She had always wanted a dog, but her mother had not allowed it. In the photo Michael was looking at the camera, but the dog was giving him a look of complete devotion. Claire reminded herself not to look like that when she and Michael were face to face.
Next to the dog picture there were a few awards for his charity work – Tina had told Claire about the boards he sat on – and tucked under a crystal one which had his name engraved on it there was a folded piece of blue paper. Claire picked it up. Then she saw it was a note, handwritten on heavy vellum paper, clearly with a fountain pen.
Michael,
After yesterday I have no idea what to feel about you. I believed, obviously incorrectly, that I was important to you and we each considered the other as central to our life. In case you don’t know this, let me tell you that I value myself enough not just to be hurt by your continued involvement with another woman, but also to be both angry and strong enough to drop you as I would a toad that had somehow slipped into my hand.
I am dreadfully sorry that I lost my temper with you. It was merely the shock of what I consider extremely bad behavior on your part. I won’t bother you with my recriminations again. In fact, I and my circle will be sure to ignore you in the future.
You may forget, Michael, that I was not just a tennis champion but was also known for my good sportsmanship. A gentleman should also play by the rules and you are guilty of a double-fault. I think you should, as on the court, reconsider boundaries and your serve. I’m too good at my game to bother to volley anymore.
I just regret I kissed a toad.
Katherine
Claire looked up guiltily, folded the letter and put it back under the crystal. It was quite a letter, and it must have had some impact on Michael or else he surely would have tossed it away. To stop herself from further predations on Michael’s personal life, Claire forced herself to sit down. The letter, though, had sobered her. She reminded herself she was only getting this opportunity because someone else more entitled had dropped out. She wondered if life was like that – you only got a slice of the cake when someone else went without.
From her vantage point on the sofa she looked out at the hallway and wondered how many more letters like that Michael Wainwright had stored in the lateral files. Did Tina read them all, the way she seemed to read his e-mail? Did she keep them in a single folder? Did she label it, and how? She couldn’t imagine that Tina was good at filing anything except her nails. But Tina had that easy-going personality that could schedule meetings, briskly dismiss the unwanted and pacify those that required it, make up plausible excuses when necessary and juggle a raft of social engagements and girlfriends.
All of the objects, photos and, most importantly, the note, had made her even more nervous. She was out of her depth and she knew she wasn’t a good swimmer. One slip of the tongue, one cramp in her style and she’d go under. But, she reminded herself, she had no illusions about her relationship with Michael Wainwright. She was a convenience, a diversion, a temp. She had started her job there at Crayden Smithers as a temp and, if she found herself humiliated when she returned, she could easily leave. At her level in the business hierarchy it wasn’t hard to find another poorly-paying job and perhaps she would go back to Staten Island, losing the commute and gaining a little self-confidence.
The longer she waited the more doubtful she felt about the whole plan. It wasn’t too late, she told herself, to simply roll her little black suitcase out the door. She could put her ticket and a note on his
