A Perfect Crime by Peter Abrahams

everybody.” She refilled her glass. “With the exception of Bernie. He’s kind, sweet, and gentle. He does have that toenail thing, though.”
    “Fungus?” said Francie.
    “Whatever it is turns their nails all hard and yellow.” Nora went to the bathroom.
    Anne, still pink, turned to Francie. “Nora mentioned your husband was quite a tennis player.”
    “He was,” Francie said. “And yours?”
    “He doesn’t play. I—I’ve tried to get him interested, but he has no free time.”
    “What does he do?”
    “He’s a psychologist.” Anne took another sip of beer, bigger than the first, as though fortifying herself. “Can I ask you something?”
    “Sure.”
    “I hope it’s not too pushy.”
    “We’ll never know at this rate.”
    Anne went pinker still, and Francie felt a little ashamed of herself. “Are you and Nora playing in the tournament?”
    “What tournament?”
    “The club doubles championship.”
    “We don’t play together anymore. Not in tournaments.”
    “But you won it a bunch of times—I saw in the trophy case.”
    “We finally decided to preserve the friendship instead.”
    “I know you’re joking. You’re both so supportive on the court.”
    “Not of each other. The last tournament we played they called the police.” Anne’s eyes widened . “Now I am joking,” Francie said; how delicate this woman was. “What’s on your mind?”
    “First,” said Anne, “I’d better confess I don’t usually play as well as I did tonight. Not nearly.”
    “And second?”
    “I wondered if you’d like to be my partner in the tournament.”
    “How could I say no?”
    Nora was back, Anne gone. “She’s not as fragile as she makes out,” Nora said. “See the way she went right at me with that overhead in the second set?”
    “She probably assumed you’d be moving to cover the empty court.”
    “Is that your way of saying I’m fat?”
    “No. ‘ You’re fat’is my way of saying you’re fat.”
    “So you’re not saying it?”
    “My meaning is clear.”
    “Because even supposing I’d put on three or four or fifteen pounds—did you notice how hard I’m hitting the ball?”
    “You’ve always hit hard.”
    “Not like this. I’m going to write an article for
Tennis Magazine—
‘ Eat Your Way to Power. ’Just a little beefy hip rotation and pow—F equals MA.”
    “You’re working on the M?”
    “That’s what’s revolutionary about it.”
    Nora ordered more beer; Francie signed. “Ready to talk about Roger?” Nora said.
    “As I’ll ever be.”
    “Does he have that toenail thing, by the way?”
    “You’ll have to ask him.”
    “Meaning you don’t know?”
    Francie said nothing.
    “Meaning you’re not occupying the same bed? Of course. And that would be your Byzantine way of telling me. How long has this been the case?”
    “Some time.”
    “That would be months.”
    “Many.”
    Nora shook her head. “One month is my limit when it comes to abstinence—must be tied to the cycles of the moon, something tidal. After that, I need life support.” She studied Francie’s face, quite openly. “Can’t be good for you, either,” she said. “Someone like Anne, that’s different—modest sex drive at best.”
    “How would you know something like that? Maybe she’s in bed with her husband as we speak.”
    “Ironing his shirts is more like it,” Nora said. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
    “No.”
    “When was the last time you had an orgasm? In the company of another human being, that is.”
    “What difference does it make when I had an orgasm?
    Nuns—”
    “You’re not a nun. Answer the question.”
    The true answer was last Thursday, and not only one. Francie came very close to saying just that: her lips parted, the tip of her tongue curved up to form the
L
of “last,” and after that the whole tale—cottage, kayak, little bedroom—would come spilling out. Francie clamped her mouth shut, held it all inside; she could keep a