Private Lies (13 page)

"Even at the beginning?"

"Must we, Ken?"

"It's just an idea," he muttered. But she could
see he was still concentrating on the subject.

"Believe me. It's ridiculous."

"Because he's, well, less than ardent?"

She started to laugh, then checked herself. Where was he
heading, she wondered.

"Ken, really."

"And lately?"

"Let's not say it's one of his foremost priorities.
Oh, he's human. Like any healthy man." She paused, remembering. "No,"
she said with an air of finality, assessing his original question. "I've
detected no difference lately, if that's what you want to know. Neither more
nor less."

"You don't think Maggie could turn him on?"

"You tell me, Ken."

He was silent again for a long time.

"There's a lot to say for big breasts. Any man could
find comfort in them."

"And do they comfort you?"

"They did once. But that was before."

"And she?"

"Hard to tell." He shrugged. "She can take
it or leave it."

"She doesn't notice?"

"Notice what?" he said coyly.

She had finished dressing and grooming herself. He still
lay on the bed, naked, reflective. Bending over him, she patted his penis.

"Let's face it, Ken. I haven't left her much."

He sprang upright and gathered her in his arms.

"Ken, please," she squirmed coquettishly.
"It's getting late." But he did not release her, holding her to him.

"Fact is," he said, "when it does happen, I
feel like I'm betraying you, that I'm being unfaithful. Imagine that."

"I know the feeling," Carol confessed.

"Proves that it's not sex that holds marriages
together. There are other considerations." He paused and studied her face.
"Like prenuptial agreements."

She stiffened and insinuated herself out of his embrace.

"That's not fair. You have things that anchor you as
well. Your children, the concept of family. And don't tell me you're without
financial worries."

"Nothing that can't be handled. What's keeping us
apart is that damned agreement of yours. Not to mention your idea of material
security, of the good life."

"Unfortunately," she snapped, "they go hand
in hand." She waited until the brief flash of anger dissipated. "Do I
have to explain once again the debilitating effects of financial
pressure?"

"Not to me, Carol," he sighed. "I'm
sorry."

He got out of bed and went over to a chair where he had
thrown his clothes. Then he stepped into his jockey shorts. She watched him.
His attitude was puzzling. Suddenly, perhaps feeling her inspection, he looked
up at her.

"But it has been percolating in my head," he
said, putting on his socks.

"No one ever accused you of not being creative."

He chuckled, then seemed to slip into concentration as he
paused in his dressing. She saw he was self-absorbed and remained silent.

"When we're all together," he said after his
pause, "
they
look like the married ones. They're the ones with the
most to say to each other. They're the ones with the most obvious
compatibility."

"By design. We've agreed to show as little interest in
each other as possible."

"More than design, Carol. They may actually have more
in common with each other than with us."

He nodded as if to underscore the point. Then, rising, he
stepped into his pants, zipped his fly, and tightened his belt.

"Kindling ready to be ignited." He stopped all
movement suddenly and looked at her. "All we have to do is take it one
step further."

"Ken, I'm not looking for something we can't
handle."

"In a sense they're already together."

"Working together," she corrected. "It's
inconceivable that it could be otherwise."

He shook his head as if he were questioning himself,
waiting for an answer. "So far," he said, looking at her pointedly.
"Our job will be to make something happen between them."

"Like what? An affair? Force them to fall in
love?"

"Why not? It happens," Ken said, buttoning his
shirt. "It happened to us."

"But you're talking about something else," she
said. "Falling in love is like ... like Kismet, mysterious, involuntary.
You're talking about inducing them. How can you possibly do that?"

"Ideas can be planted in people's heads," Ken
said, looping his tie quickly, then pulling it together in a Windsor knot.
"Iago did it to Othello. And there are cults that do it to people all the
time."

"Brainwash them into loving each other?" Carol
asked nervously.

"In a manner of speaking. Why not? Look at the upside.
We succeed in drawing them into an adulterous affair. Discovery would mean a
divorce on your terms. If it works, it will solve everything."

"It's impossible," she said flatly, although the
idea did intrigue her.

"We throw them together. Make ourselves less
attractive to them. We suggest. Persuade. Insinuate. Seduce them into the idea.
Play with their heads."

"Play with Eliot's head? He'd be way ahead of
us."

"Not on that subject. I've seen it. When it comes to
human behavior, he's a retard."

"And Maggie?"

"Despite her intellect, she has a certain
naïveté."

"It sounds bizarre," Carol said, but her
skepticism was wavering.

"I'm in the advertising business, remember. I have
seen the power of persuasion. Especially when conditions are right," Ken
said, warming to his own arguments. "Hell, Carol. Study them when they're
together. They're like cream cheese and jelly. A computer dating service would
spit them out in tandem. They're matchable. Compatible." He was growing
increasingly excited. "There seems to be a propensity between them, a bent
in the right direction. Barring your unwillingness to scuttle your nest egg on
your own, admit it's worth trying."

In the abstract, she thought, it was, indeed, a solution.
But there it hung, like some elusive apparition in a fevered dream, unreachable
and transparent.

"Considering the human material," she asked with
a clinician's intonation, "do you think they can be induced into actually
being unfaithful?"

He took his wallet and keys from the dresser and put them
in his pocket. Then he turned and looked at her archly, offering a thin smile
of amusement.

"Why not? Why should we have all the fun?"

She laughed. "I have to confess," she said,
cocking her head, "it would be like winning the lottery."

"Maybe for them, too," he muttered, injecting an
odd, wishful note.

"You really think we can be that clever?"

"We are that clever," he said, reaching out,
gathering her into his arms.

"At least on Fridays," she whispered.

"It will be like offering them medicine that, in the
end, will be good for them. And everybody gets what they want. You get your
divorce and the art and antiques. And me?" He paused, and cupping her
buttocks, drew her close to him. "I get you every day of the week."

He kissed her deeply, then released her.

"It's so ... so conspiratorial," Carol said.
"Although I'm not quite certain how we do this."

"I'm not sure myself." Ken put on his jacket and
studied himself in the mirror, patting his hair in place. "We'll observe
them first. Study them carefully. Then we'll come up with a strategy." He
tapped his teeth, obviously in deep thought. "Some variation of selling,
making them picture themselves as a twosome. We reinforce the obvious. Keep
nurturing the idea. Watch for the opportunities. Keep the pot boiling." He
sucked in his breath. "Goddamn, I like this."

"And us?" she asked. "How must we
appear?"

"Aloof, distant, disinterested in each other," he
replied with some authority. "But ingratiating to them. Charming. Always
appearing innocent, unobserving, without an iota of suspicion. Make them feel
secure enough to show warmth to each other in our presence."

"Very good, Ken." She smiled. "You should
have been a writer."

"Maybe someday," he laughed. "Anyway, it's
food for thought. Grist for next Friday's mill."

"Oh, God, Ken. A whole week. How will I bear it?"
She looked at her watch. It was nearly six. "It's late," she said.
"Mustn't give them the slightest cause for alarm. Not Eliot. Or
Maggie."

She embraced him near the door, lingering over a long kiss.

"We'll be very clever, won't we, Ken?" she said.

"Very," he said. "And we'll be doing them
the greatest favor of their lives."

"Wonderful," she said. "And isn't it better
to give than receive?"

* *
* *

The next morning, Carol did not get out of bed at the usual
hour.

"Are you all right?" Eliot asked when he came in
later and she was still in bed. She shrugged and kept her eyes closed, mostly
to avoid any discussion about going to the convention. She toyed with the idea
of feigning sickness to get out of it.

"I'm a bit under the weather," she told him,
closing her eyes.

"Then you should get your rest. We want you better for
the weekend."

He didn't bother her after that. She heard him dress. Then
later she heard the front door buzz. That would be the maid. After a while the
maid knocked and asked if she wanted coffee and toast. She said yes, got up,
and dressed.

Of all their Fridays together she wanted this one to happen
because of what they had discussed. She had, as he had suggested, thought about
it, observing Eliot during the week. They had gone out for dinner with Maggie
and Ken on Sunday. A reconnaissance mission, she had characterized it to
herself. Was it possible? She avoided Ken's glance all through dinner. Or was
he avoiding hers?

As usual the conversation was dominated by Eliot and
Maggie, the main subject being a plan by officials in Nairobi to fence in the
animal parks to stop the poachers. Maggie, Carol had noted, had begun to be
quite passionate on the subject.

But mostly, she was observing them, contemplating the
possibility that Ken had suggested. Their relationship seemed too cerebral and,
when it came to computers, even esoteric. They talked about data banks and
bytes and binary theory with an intensity that was passionate, but gave no
indication of anything either physical or emotional beyond that. Theirs
appeared to be an excitement of the mind only, not the stuff that could induce
the kind of relationship that triggered sexual passion.

Nevertheless, occasionally she noted something between them
that might be a starting point, an intimate look, a fatherly pat on the hand, a
guiding arm on Maggie's back. Possibilities. She would discuss that with Ken
next Friday. They would compare notes. In her mind, she had built it up as a
most important Friday, a Friday among Fridays.

Now this thing with the convention had intruded. She would
have to talk it over with Ken. She called him at the office, something she had
previously forbidden herself. No point in exposing herself to a secretary's
recognition. One never knew how these little innocent sorties could backfire.
People observed other people more keenly than was suspected. But one little
call might do no harm, she decided.

She called him from a street booth on Broadway.

"He wants me to go to this Wildlife convention,"
she told him.

Ken laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Manna from heaven," Ken said. "Maggie is
going as well. Seems that the Wildlife people are interacting to put together a
massive data bank, countries, species, genetics, all very complicated, but
Eliot wants Maggie to be there as well. And Maggie wants me to come. Says she
doesn't want to be a third wheel."

"And are you?" Carol asked.

"I refused," Ken said, lowering his voice.

"You didn't," she said.

"Think of the time they'll spend together. It's an
opportunity."

"Unfortunately, I have to go," she protested.
"The three of us will be together."

There was a long silence on the phone. She heard him
breathing.

"That dictates a change of plans," he muttered.

"They'll be attending meetings all day," she said
slowly.

"That clinches that, Mrs. Butterfield. We have
therefore to create our own agenda," Ken said, suddenly businesslike, as
if someone might have just walked into his office. "Work on that plan we
discussed. Yes. I've been giving it lots of thought. I've got some ideas."

"I'm developing some myself," Carol said.

She felt her heart lift. It was, indeed, manna from heaven.

"And in between we can take in the sights," Ken
said with obvious elation.

"Absolutely," she said saucily. "And have I
got some sights for you."

"Good. I could use another week's worth."

She giggled and hung up.

THE FOUR OF them attended the opening cocktail party in the
ballroom of the Mayflower Hotel. Eliot cut a dashing figure in the group,
dressed in a dark pinstriped suit and silk striped tie. He wore a white
carnation in his buttonhole, which designated him as an important official of
the group.

"My friends, Mr. and Mrs. Kramer. Maggie and Ken. And,
of course, you know my wife, Carol."

He made numerous introductions in this vein as they slowly
circled the room, drinks in hand. Carol had stepped back a bit, deliberately
putting Maggie by Eliot's side. Both Carol and Ken were supernumeraries here,
which suited their motives perfectly. After a while, Eliot was squiring Maggie around,
introducing her, showing her off.

"Maggie's a computer expert," they could hear him
say above the din.

Seeing them both like this only reinforced the idea that
they could be ... Ken searched his mind for an appropriate word ... mated. That
was it. They had an obvious commonality. All that was needed was a little
stimulation.

Both he and Carol, as if on command, faded into opposite
corners of the room. Their eyes met. They nodded and circled. Ken observed
Maggie and Eliot. Eliot's handsome face was flushed with the excitement of
adulation. At times a circle gathered around them, men and women standing
about, rocking on their heels, listening with rapt attention to Eliot, Maggie
respectful, occasionally interjecting a comment. She looked happy, in her element,
belonging.

Closely observed like this, they were a natural fit, the
perfect couple. It struck Ken then that perhaps their logic, his and Carol's,
was wrong, that the situation should be confronted headon, the obvious
articulated. Eliot and Maggie were a far better fit than their present
mismatches.

The cocktail party droned on, the din rising, as more and
more delegates piled into the room. Ken and Carol were traveling around the
room in an opposite circumference, intersecting finally near the door. Motioning
her with his eyes, Carol followed him out into the grand chandeliered hall,
past smaller party rooms. Finding one that was empty, he ducked in and she
followed.

The room was dark, lit only by the light of the corridor.
Inside, he took her hand and led her into the darkest corner, where they
embraced, kissing deeply.

"You saw them," he said. "Made for each
other."

"No question in my mind," she said. He felt her
breath tickling his ear.

"We encourage that idea. Put it in their heads. Be
subtle, casual. How much they have in common. What an outstanding couple. Show
pride. No jealousy."

"Make them compare, is that it?"

"I think so," he whispered. "It's not a
science."

"And us? How do we act?"

"Like always. Friendly and tolerant. Cool and
distant."

"Yes," she said, her breath coming in gasps as he
stroked her hair with one hand, while the other came to rest on her buttocks.

"If only you could sit down with him. Have a civilized
discussion on the merits."

"What merits? Not for Eliot," Carol said.
"I'd be on the street in seconds. You don't know him."

"Surely, he wouldn't want to stay with someone who
wants out."

"Oh, he'd let me out, all right." She shook her
head. "I wouldn't want to risk it. Eliot can be devious and subtle. We get
him suspicious and there's no telling how he'd react. He finds out about us, he
could take it all away."

"Take it all away," Ken said. "There it is
again."

There was no point in pursuing that argument. She had
convinced herself that if she came away from her marriage with Eliot empty-handed,
sooner or later it would have a corrosive effect on their relationship.

"That's settled, darling," she said sweetly.
"Especially now that we've found a way out."

So she had bought the idea completely, he thought. He was
elated. The plan, after all, needed two prongs.

"We have to make them see it," Ken said.
"That's the objective."

"The spark is there between them, Ken. If only they
can feel the way we do, the way we do now."

He sensed the rising need between them.

"Yes, now," he said.

"God, yes," she responded. "Besides, it's
Friday."

She leaned against the wall and began to shimmy her long
cocktail dress upward. He helped her when the hem had reached her thighs. She
was wearing stockings alone, held up by a garter belt and no panties.

"As promised. Always ready for you, my love."
With the wall as support, he lifted her and inserted himself. The room was dark
and quiet, the only sound their gasping breath. It was uncommon and risky,
which accelerated their excitement.

Just then the room burst into brightness.

"And this is one of our smaller rooms," a male
voice said.

Alert to her condition, Carol moved away from Ken and
hurriedly arranged her dress. None too soon. A moment later they stepped
forward. Two men stood at the entrance, one with a clipboard. As expected, they
were both surprised.

"We'll be needing a larger room," Ken said.
"What's the capacity?"

"One hundred," the man with the clipboard said.

"That won't do," Carol said. "The wedding
guests are up to two hundred."

They started to walk toward the entrance.

"I can show you a larger room if you wish," the
man with the clipboard said.

"Maybe tomorrow," Ken said. He looked suddenly to
the left of the entrance. "There it is."

"What?" the man with the clipboard asked.

"The light switch," Ken said. "We've been
groping around."

They walked out of the room and headed back to the cocktail
party.

"What a team we are," Ken said. "How can we
miss?"

"We could have been caught," Carol murmured.
"That's how."

They got back to the cocktail party and split up. At the
far end of the room, Ken spotted Eliot and Maggie in the center of a group. He
was certain they hadn't realized that they had been gone. He watched them for a
long time. Made for each other, he thought. All we have to do is make them see
it.

Later they had dinner at Duke's, a large restaurant with an
old-fashioned steak house feeling. It smelled faintly of garlic from the
pickles placed in a boat dish on each table.

The waiter was an older man who had obviously seen much
service.

"Watch this," Ken said with a wink. It was, he
realized, an act of ingratiation, despite the fact that this was not Eliot's
kind of restaurant. He looked at Carol. See, I am beginning, his eyes told her.
"What are the specials, my good man?"

"Specials?" the waiter sneered. "You want
specials?"

"My friend here loves to hear about the
specials," Ken said. "He greatly appreciates culinary artistry."

"So, you've noticed," Eliot replied, not quite
getting it.

"He's teasing you," Maggie said.

"We got specials," the waiter said. "Fat
frankfurters." He made a ring with his thumb and forefinger. "This
big."

"Oh, those specials," Eliot said, forcing a
tolerant laugh. The others joined in. Couple friends, Ken thought. How jolly we
all are. How simpatico we must appear to observers.

"I've been here before," Ken said.

"Choose from the menu," the waiter harumphed.
"Here we still got pickles on the table."

"Some things never change," Ken said.

Maggie ordered broiled chicken, Carol swordfish, and Ken
and Eliot sirloin steaks, which prompted Eliot to plunge into the subject of
the Masai, the African tribe in Kenya that literally lived with and measured
their wealth in the numbers of cattle they owned.

"They recognize every cow and bull they have by their
markings. They even name them. Their entire lives are built around them. They
construct their houses with cattle dung, placing them in a circle in the center
of which they keep the herd."

"Things must get pretty pungent around the
village," Ken said, determined to be affable.

"The stink is rather gamey," Carol said.

"Shall I tell them what the staple of their diet
is?" Eliot asked Carol. He was being playful, Ken observed, feeling good.

"I hope you all have strong stomachs," Carol
said.

Eliot continued. "They cut a vein in the neck of the
cow." He picked up a knife and demonstrated on his own neck. "They
catch the blood in a gourd already filled with milk and this mixture is their
staple."

"It must have nutritional value," Maggie said.

"They are tall, beautiful people. Quite striking in
their orange robes. Quite distinctive." Eliot paused and elaborately broke
a salt stick in two, on which he spread butter meticulously. "And do you
know how they clean these gourds?" Eliot asked after he chewed a piece of
the salt stick.

"How?" Maggie asked.

"You really want to know?" Carol said.

Maggie nodded and turned to Eliot.

"With cow urine. They wash the gourds out with cow
urine. In fact, cow urine is considered a useful disinfectant for the body as
well."

"Interesting," Maggie said.

"I told you," Carol said.

"That's Africa for you," Eliot said. "A
continent of unbelievable customs, sights, sounds. Nature's last stand. An
ecology system in its death throes. That's what all this wildlife preservation
is about. Preventing a holocaust. That's why we keep going back time and again.
Not only to revel in the glory of this vast wilderness. To bear witness and try
to do something about it."

Eliot's eyes seemed to glow with religious fervor. He
glanced toward Ken, then, as he spoke, toward Maggie.

"Purple sunsets, clear sweet air, the only place left
in the world to contemplate one's personal value system, to confront the truth
of oneself away from the pressures and distractions of the modern world."

Of course, Ken and Maggie knew that Eliot and Carol were
going for three weeks in December. In July it had seemed such a long time away.
Now it was October, just around the corner.

"Carol's been three times," Eliot said.
"What did you think, Carol? Tell them."

"There's nothing quite like it."

She had talked about it with Ken from time to time, calling
it "wonderful at first, but repetitious." Now she was suddenly
describing it in more glowing terms. "It stays with you for a long time.
Each time you go it becomes totally different, like entering other alien worlds.
There are all these fantastic and amazingly diverse creatures living together
on these vast plains, struggling to survive. It's incredibly gorgeous and
inspiring."

She paused for a moment, then glanced first at Maggie, then
at Ken, to whom the message was immediately telescoped.

"I wish you could both come with us," Carol said.

"What a wonderful idea," Eliot interjected.

Maggie and Ken exchanged glances.

"Sounds a bit out of our range," Maggie said
cautiously.

"Well, at least it might be fun to think about,"
Ken said to Maggie.

"Tantalizing," Maggie sighed.

"Well worth the contemplation," Eliot said.

Then the subject was gone and they turned to more mundane
matters. Throughout the meal, Ken remained alert to nuance and opportunity,
awed by Carol's sudden stroke of brilliance. Africa! Of course. Toward the end
of the meal, Eliot read from a printed program he took from an inside pocket.

"Tomorrow we have a breakfast meeting. Then I give my
paper. A luncheon meeting. A bit of free time. Another meeting at four. Then,
of course, at night the black-tie awards dinner."

"Sounds like a full plate," Ken said, his glance
drifting to Maggie.

"They're welcome to join us," Maggie said.
"Aren't they, Eliot?"

"Absolutely," Eliot said, turning to Ken.
"Unless you'd rather sightsee."

"Good idea. I've only been to Washington on
business," Ken said. "I thought I'd hire a car. Take in Mount Vernon." He was pleased with his fast thinking; the excursion to Washington's home suggested distance and, therefore, a longer time frame. Besides, their
absence would provide an opportunity for Eliot to bask in Maggie's admiration,
unfettered by their presence.

"And you, Carol?" Eliot said. "What's your
pleasure?"

"I've read Eliot's paper," Carol said.

"You could sightsee with Ken," Maggie suggested.

"That would be wonderful. Mount Vernon is incredible.
And it's filled with American antiques," Eliot said.

"I'm not much for sightseeing," Carol said,
obviously cautious, feigning reluctance, playing, it perfectly. "We'll see
how I feel tomorrow," she added with indifference.

Bingo, Ken thought. They are playing into our hands.

But it was the idea of Africa that most intrigued Ken. It
seemed the perfect venue for what they had in mind. Three weeks together.
Opportunities for still greater intimacy between Eliot and Maggie in a place of
beauty, mystery, and romance. Purple sunsets. Clear sweet air. His mind clung
to those images. And others of his own creation. Days of exploration on the
vast plains. Nights by the open fire.

Of course the money was an issue and Maggie would balk at
the expense. Had Carol considered that aspect of it? Perhaps she had.

Going in style with Eliot would cost, Ken calculated,
fifteen, maybe twenty thousand. But money, in this instance, wasn't the point.
Carol had cleverly planted the idea in Eliot's and Maggie's minds. She had made
it seem so perfectly natural, so seamless, so expertly manipulative, as if she
were a veteran of the process, a skilled practitioner of the brainwasher's art.

Suddenly he felt a twinge of guilt. The method had the aura
of a charade, but it was not harmless, not merely a game. His thoughts were
leading him down a forbidden path. He checked himself quickly. The means, when
the cause was worthy, justified the ends. Didn't they?

Later, in their room, Ken contemplated his timing and tone.
It was important to have it just right. He waited until Maggie came out of the
bathroom dressed for bed, her skin moist with cream. She wore a single plastic
curler on top of her head. A nice person, he told himself, observing her
without guilt or desire. At the beginning, there might have been something
between them, but that was long ago, far away, dead as cold ashes.