Читать книгу Tully - Paullina Simons - Страница 20

‘…Take me now

Baby, here as I am

Pull me close

Try to understand

Desire and hunger’s the fire I breathe

Love is a banquet on which we feed…’

Robin was singing very loudly in the shower. It was Saturday night, and he was going to see Tully. Somehow – miraculously! – she made Saturday night happen. He booked the best room at the Holiday Inn three days ago when she told him she could make it.

Robin got out of the shower and toweled himself off in front of a huge floor-to-ceiling mirror. The mirror was all fogged up, but Robin ran a towel over it and then stepped back to look at himself. ‘Hmm, I look pretty good,’ he said aloud, and got dressed.

His great mood was marred only by the anxiety of leaving his family store’s money to be counted on the busiest day of the week by a nineteen-year-old assistant. I really need to relax, man, thought Robin, pulling on his best tan slacks and a Polo sweater. Look at my brothers.

Stephen DeMarco, Sr, too ill to get out of bed, left his store to be managed by his three sons, but Robin’s brothers were not at all interested in the family business. Bruce and Stevie were too busy dating and playing ball. Dating and playing ball was all Bruce and Steve wanted to do.

Stevie was a sophomore at Kansas State University at Manhattan, majoring in rugby, beer, and girls, while Bruce had been playing the guitar since his high school graduation five years ago. He was ‘trying to find himself.’ At present, he had apparently found himself in dairy products. Bruce became convinced that he could ‘self-actualize’ only through farming, and, with that in mind, he bought, with his dad’s help, a hundred-acre farm twenty miles north of Manhattan. Replete with horses, chickens, and corn. So instead of wearing Pierre Cardin suits and Polo shirts like Robin, Bruce wore overalls and got up with the cows. He played his guitar to the horses, and they seemed to like that; so did the girls.

That left only Robin to work the store. Before Tully, Robin worked the entire seven days the store was open. When he told Tully that he was off Sundays, he wasn’t telling the truth. The truth was that Robin hadn’t taken off a Sunday in seven years, but seeing that Tully could drag a dying Doberman single-handedly off the road, Robin figured he could also show some backbone and take off one day. He realized, though, that no one knew the merchandise as he did, no one could sell it as he did, no one could offer the customer exactly the right thing or know the customer’s style and size and price just by the way the customer dressed and talked, quite as Robin did.

And then, of course, there was the small question of cash. Not much was cash – mostly it was VISA and personal checks. But on a good Sunday, there could also be five hundred to a thousand dollars in small bills. Okay, okay, no big deal, he was insured against theft, and in any case what was a grand to a company whose annual gross sales were nearly $2 million? But theft! And there were plenty of ways to steal from him. There were some expensive Ralph Lauren and Pierre Cardin shirts in his store. Some pricey ties and belts, some $200 Bally shoes. Robin’s floor guys could just walk off with three or four $75 shirts, and that wouldn’t make Robin happy at all. So he methodically made note of the merchandise on display, and the following day matched what was missing to the receipts in the register. It was neurotic, he knew, but he just hated the thought of being taken.

Robin put on Paco Rabanne and blow-dried his hair. After a few months of taking off Sundays, Robin locked the supply room, locked away the inventory sheets, and began to take off Wednesdays, too. A couple of times he brought Tully to Manhattan on Saturdays to watch him play soccer in the afternoons. Playing soccer on Saturday afternoons felt to Robin like cutting school – wrong and slightly delicious. Usually he went back to the store after a few hours, but not tonight.

‘…Because the night Belongs to lovers…’

he sang, locking the house and starting up his car.

‘…Because the night Belongs to us…’

Even though Robin was fretting about work, he was thinking of Tully most of all.

He was stroking her hair after they had just finished making love.

‘Tully,’ Robin whispered. ‘Tully.’

‘What, Robin, what?’

‘You do this with many guys?’

She laughed. ‘Well, never in a Holiday Inn.’ She looked around the room. ‘Nice. Great bed. I’ve never been on a bed like this before. This big.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure you are.’ She smiled and sighed. ‘Not so many.’

‘Do you remember your first?’

She stiffened, and her body became lifeless. ‘Who doesn’t?’ she said evenly. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Sure.’ He smiled. ‘It was with an older woman. Meg. She came into Dad’s store, you know, to buy something for her husband.’

‘But was looking for something for herself, too?’ offered Tully.

‘I guess,’ Robin said. ‘A little for herself.’

‘How much older?’ Tully wanted to know.

‘I was sixteen, she was twenty-five.’

‘Kind of like you and me, reversed,’ said Tully.

‘Kind of,’ said Robin. Except that for Meg he had felt nothing but gratitude. ‘Was your first older, too?’

‘Yeah,’ said Tully. ‘He was older.’

‘How old were you?’

‘I,’ said Tully, ‘was younger.’