Читать книгу The King is Dead - Jim Lewis - Страница 13

Emily in the living room of their small apartment on Chapel Street, sipping at a gin and tonic in the dust-amber heat of a Saturday evening. Emily, who worked as an assistant at a furniture importing firm and had lunchtime trysts with the married man who managed the place. She was wearing one of his dress shirts, open to her navel, and she was giggling as Nicole described the night before. Then she resumed her usual air of lassitude. How bad was it?

It wasn’t bad at all, said Nicole. Which is not to say that I actually enjoyed it.

Did he enjoy it?—She took another sip of her drink. As long as he enjoyed it, darling. We do what we can.

Nicole frowned. I don’t know. I didn’t ask.

Oh, I’m sure he enjoyed it, said Emily. They usually do.

Speaking of which, how did you get that shirt? said Nicole. Did you send him back to the office bare-chested?

That’s one of those secret tricks we kept women have. How to build up your wardrobe, without his wife being any the wiser. I wonder if I could write that up for one of the magazines. Tips for a Fallen Angel, by Anonymous. She sipped at her drink again. So. My little Nicole has a lover.

I suppose I do, said Nicole.

Hurrah, said Emily. Another wicked girl.

I suppose I am.

Then we’ll have each other to talk to in hell. Bring along a parasol: I hear it’s hot down there.

Well, I may pay for it on Judgment Day, but I’m going to get as much from him as I can in the meantime.

Nicole! Emily laughed.

Jezebel, if you please. Jezebel, harlot, hussy, trollop, any of those will do.

Slut, said Emily, and was immediately sorry she’d said it.

But no,—Slut, said Nicole emphatically, even as she reddened at the word, and wondered if it was right.